


Like a Monet

by piccadilly



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Fluff, Humor, M/M, References to Jane Austen, Uneducated references to the London area and rich people fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piccadilly/pseuds/piccadilly
Summary: A Clueless AU where Harry is your typical Primrose Hill princess and Nick is his pretentious ex step-brother and they’re majorly, totally, butt-crazy in love (except they don’t know it yet).//An abandoned fic of mine from 2013. Incomplete, but all the important bits are there. Uploaded as otherwise it would just rot away in my files forever. I haven't followed Gryles in years now so this is hilariously dated, but made me laugh re-reading in 2017 anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an unfinished WIP from 2013 I just discovered on an old, dusty harddrive. Despite missing scenes (that were mostly just filler and story building - unnecessary if you've seen Clueless) the main bits are all there. In retrospect, this would probably be more realistic with Harry as Paul Rudd and Nick as Cher - Nick is shallow, fashionable and loves pop music, Harry is a bit pretentious, tortured and a health nut. Someone else much funnier than me can write that version.
> 
> Due to the sixth form setting, Harry is 17 and Nick is 20 - which is still weird but there's nothing more explicit than a kiss. Also, this was written before I went to London, so 18-year-old me navigated it blind through maps of the Underground and multiple viewings of Bridget Jones' Diary. As I'm never planning on finishing this, I can't really be bothered making my directions or knowledge of the city more believable.

If his life were a movie, Harry hopes it would be a glitzy one with gratuitous shots of tourist hotspots and a wardrobe personally designed by Tom Ford. There’d be the standard opening shots showcasing views of the shimmering Thames (hopefully taken on a day when a rare bout of sunshine almost disguises its perpetual murkiness) and a soundtrack fit to ride off triumphantly into the sunset on a lawnmower. The casting would include lots of devastatingly handsome famous people in pressed coats and tight pants and _at least_ one makeover scene. Two, if he has any say in it.

Naturally, Harry would be everybody’s favourite character.

Aside from Zayn, who has cheekbones so sharp anyone sharing his shot will have to battle them for attention. And Niall, whose laugh is so raucous everyone immediately falls a little in love with him. And especially Louis, who’ll fight tooth and nail to make sure he is the centre of attention at all times.

Harry doesn’t know who he’d be. The pretty one who’s eternally confused and always had the finest peacoats from Yves Saint Laurent. Even on the rare occasion that the London weather isn’t fit for a peacoat, it doesn’t discourage Harry. There are always term breaks down South and the annual Styles Switzerland ski trip. The Malik’s and the Tomlinson’s are coming this year, meaning Harry wont be stuck alone in the snow while his sister flirts with the hopeless instructor and Nick fucks off to the ski lounge with his pretentious university friends.

Harry doesn’t get why Nick even comes on these holidays, anyway. It’s not like he’s family. Anne and Pete have been divorced longer than they were married, and it was only for two years when Harry was ten and Nick was thirteen.

Harry’s nearly eighteen now and Nick still hangs around, dropping in during Christmas and his college holidays to eat them out of house and home and generally make Harry feel as young and silly as possible.

In saying that, it’s not that they don’t get on. It’s just how they are. Nick hogs the telly and forces them to watch _actual_ _political shows_ that aren’t Have I Got News For You simply because he knows Harry has no clue what’s going on, and in turn Harry makes Nick drive him around Notting Hill playing the most obnoxiously mainstream pop starlet he can find on BBC Radio One just to watch him pretend to hate it.

They’re not brothers, nor stepbrothers. Never have been. They’re friends, almost. Some days. Mostly they’re just each other’s biggest pet peeve.

It’s fine.

 

//

 

"Prepare another seat at the table, love," his mum swoops into the kitchen, clutching a sleek briefcase under one arm and three Whistles shopping bags under the other, "Nicholas is coming to dinner."

Harry does a terrible job of suppressing his groan whilst also trying to sneak a peek at the contents of her bags. “But why? He’s not even family.”

Anne shoots him a look so scornful he wilts immediately, already reaching for an extra set of cutlery.

"Not by blood," she concedes, "but he’s still a big part of our life. Pete and I divorced a long time ago but it’s hard for him, having all these stepmothers and families he’s belonged to for no longer than a few years. He opened up to us and we all adore him - even you, though you pretend otherwise - so enough being a muppet. Maybe if you two stopped bickering for two seconds you’d be able to see that."

Harry huffs, but he doesn’t deny it. On the occasions that he and Nick aren’t at each other’s throats they have a laugh, and even when they are, it’s still fun, still exciting. They’re careful never to go too far, the snarky comments never leaving the safety of their finer tuned securities. Nick never comments on Harry’s pressing need to be adored and paid attention to, and in turn Harry never brings up Nick’s difficult relationship with his father. It’s nice, really, their little system.

By the time the sensor light switches on and Lucy’s roast is well on its way to ever so slightly “caramelized” (burnt), Nick’s banging into the house and joining them in the kitchen. He and Anne share a hug, and she fusses over his appearance for a while, tutting at the unironed plaid and jeans so skinny and ripped there’s a tear right beneath his arse. It’s the stupidest thing Harry has ever seen, and he says so without a second thought.

Nick rolls his eyes, picking up a stray biro from the island and chucking it at Harry’s head. Unsurprisingly, it catches him on his left ear. He doesn’t know what he was expecting; Nick’s always had excellent aim.

He looks tired, is the thing. Nick’s always sported an almost trademark quiff, except when Harry was fourteen and Nick came back from Ibiza with a bleached blonde mop and the complexion of a lobster. No matter how hard his friends teased him, Harry still doesn’t think it looked _that_ bad.

Tonight his hair is mussed and curly, flopping over his forehead in loose dark coils. He’s clearly hung-over, but it still looks clean and incredibly soft to the touch. Harry has to physically restrain himself from leaning over and carding his fingers through it.

“You’re looking fresh,” Harry beams instead, making sure to raise his voice a few more octaves than necessary. It’s difficult, with his voice being the gravelly slur that it is, but Nick still takes the time to flinch and eye him mutinously.

“As a daisy,” Nick grits out, waiting until Anne’s turned back to her planner to raise two fingers in a rude salute. Harry just smiles beatifically at him until Nick rounds the island and plops himself down next to him.

“You heard from Gem, then?” Nick asks, helping himself to the bottle of merlot waiting patiently on the countertop. He pours himself a healthy glass, wincing slightly as he tips the contents down his throat. It stains the corner of his lips a dark burgundy and for some reason Harry cannot look away. The clang of glass hitting marble a little too forcefully brings him back to reality, and he cards a hand through his hair to disguise the blush rising on his face.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, giving a delicate cough and turning back to Nick, “she’s loving Sheffield. Her classes are great, but she said her roommate’s boyfriend is always around and having to sleep in the same room as them is kind of weird.”

Nick snorts, taking another swig. “That’s rough. Don’t understand why she insisted on living in the dorms when she could have rented with friends like I do. Everyone gets their own room and there’s always the poor sod that can’t handle the mess and cleans for everyone.”

“Ah, _Fincham_ …” he continues, almost wistfully.

Harry shoots him a stern look, “She wanted the _real_ student experience – whatever that is. And you sound like the worst roommate ever.”

Nick just looks at him blankly. “You realize you have a housekeeper, right? One who cleans after you and prepares your tea? Where do you think these meals are coming from, Haz – you certainly can’t whip up a pot roast.”

“I could so,” Harry pouts, “I’ve just never tried.”

Nick looks like he’s caught between laughing and rolling his eyes, but resolves on ruffling Harry’s hair until it’s caught before his eyes and everything is a chocolatey blur. After a brief skirmish in which Harry bats feebly at his hands and Nick avoids getting elbowed in the balls, they return back to their previous positions. Harry perhaps scoots just a tiny bit closer.

“There’s no way Gemma’s living the _real_ student experience, anyway,” Nick picks up, “unless her life consists of avoiding all responsibilities until they’re looming over her like the plague and surviving on nothing but the cheapest ramen from Tesco. And we all know she’s an absolute swot, so like hell are there going to be unfinished assignments waiting at her doorstep.”

He finishes this with an eye roll, but there’s an undercurrent of fondness to his tone that indicates that Nick sort of loves that yeah, Gemma’s a total nerd. She’s easily the brainiest of the Styles clan – and notorious for rubbing it in everyone’s face. Harry gets the brunt of it, being the youngest, but he’s witnessed Nick sit through the occasional sly dig over his environmental law degree at Kings College. If it were Harry he’d never hear the end of it, but when it’s Gem, Nick just takes it. He’s probably a little bit scared of her, which is hardly surprising. After all, he’s heard the legendary tale of the Big Cat Fight of ’02, when she clawed a three-inch scratch down her best friend’s cheek for taking her Justin Timberlake CD without permission. In fact, she probably told him it herself.

“And I suppose you’re living the _real_ student experience then, love?” Anne inquires, glancing up from her planner to shoot Nick an amused look.

“Christ, no,” Nick scoffs, “but I’m not fooling myself into thinking I’m not privileged.”

Harry tunes out a bit here; he’s heard the privileged talk about a thousand and one times and from almost every member of his family. Sure, he’s aware that there are children starving in Africa and people getting shot in Croydon, but not _really_. He doesn’t see any of them, for a start, aside from that time Rita was mugged on Corrie and the Comic Relief volunteers hanging around Harrods asking for dollar donations. (He always overdoes his donations to compensate for the guilt of never completing the 30 Hour Famine when he was fourteen. It keeps him up some nights, remembering the sobering bowls of plain rice Lucy cooked up for them and the secret Snickers bars Niall would somehow conjure up from nowhere. Needless to say, it was not his proudest moment.)

He comes back to when his mum waves a loaded plate of braised beef and potatoes before his nose, and he’s shepherded to the dinner table. She and Nick are still discussing Gemma’s hideous sounding biology lectures, so Harry digs in. There’s a trace of the slight smoky flavour they’ve come to expect in Anne’s cooking, but it’s pleasant nonetheless.

“How’s the degree going, Nicholas?” Robin pipes up from head of the table.

Nick lifts his fork in a shrug. “I’m at the point where I need to decide what to specialize in, and I know corporate law is where the money is, but- I’m not sure. I’m more passionate about environmental, y’know?”

Anne nods in agreement, and Harry looks up from his plate. “They both sound boring as anything.”

Nick snorts, but Robin fixes him with a pointed look. “At least he has a general idea of what he wants from his future. We’re still waiting for you to find your direction, Harry.”

He fixes his dinner with a sulky look, prodding at the beef half-heartedly. “I have direction.”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees, pre-gaming with a smirk Harry just knows will lead to a snarky comment, “to Topshop.”

Harry glares at him, swinging a swift kick at his shin beneath the table. Nick yelps, eyes racing between Harry’s outstretched palm and the prongs of his fork. He doubts Nick will do anything in the presence of adults, but he quickly retracts his hand just in case.

“Enough, you two,” his mum scolds, gently plucking the fork from Nick’s fingers, “strictly no broken bones at my dinner table.”

“He started it!” Harry whines, to which Nick lifts his hands in surrender, feigning innocence. Anne just eyes them warily, pausing to take another large gulp of wine. Robin pats her reassuringly on the thigh, sharing a pointed look.

The rest of dinner goes by fairly quietly, Harry informing them all on the perils of breaking in his new Saint Laurent Chelsea boots and Robin inviting Nick to explore the corporate side of law by interning at his firm. He doesn’t seem totally enthusiastic about it, but they all cheer up at the sight of the fruit salad Lucy made for dessert.

Nick leaves soon after, bracing himself for the November chill with another quick glass of wine and noisy cheek kisses to all parties involved. Harry’s expects nothing less than a noogie when Nick swoops in for his turn, but instead he gets a gentle ruffle to his curls and a tiny brush of Nick’s lips against his cheekbone. It’s barely a kiss, more a fleeting touch of dry warmth by the base of his ear, but Harry still feels the tingle as he lies in bed watching old TOWIE re-runs later on. It’s not like it’s never happened before – exaggerated shows of affection are sort of a thing in his life – but it still leaves Harry a little stumped. He doesn’t know why, but he finds himself touching the spot idly throughout the night, and in the morning it still aches with a feeling he can’t describe.

 

//

 

It’s been a hard day of pretending to be involved in the rugby game their class is playing whenever Miss Delevingne looks over and arguing the merits of Louis getting a nose job. He’s convinced it’s as shapeless as a root vegetable ever since Max George from sixth form told him so, though in slightly cruder words. Personally Harry thinks Louis is perfect just the way he is, but to no avail.

"It’s hideous. It ruins the whole symmetry of my face." Louis wails, the hand covering his nose never moving so the words come out slightly muffled. "I look like Gerard Depardieu."

Niall, ever so helpful, just laughs, helping himself to Harry’s unopened Snickers bar. He’d been saving that. Harry attempts a glare that goes unnoticed, so shrugs and resolves on stealing a bite of Zayn’s. He won’t mind.

Zayn does, in fact, mind. He shoots Harry a cross look as he chews on his rather unappetizing looking crunchy salad. The purpose is defeated when his cheeks are puffed out mid-bite like a squirrel, so Harry just replies with his most dazzling grin until he relents. The grin has a 93% success rate, and is Harry’s most commonly used tool of manipulation. He’s only had to unleash the most powerful - the tragic pout - three times in his life, and twice on Nick. The fact that not even he can resist it means Harry can sleep soundly at night.

Louis is, however, still miserable over his nose. Harry wants to tell him that even with a vaguely root-vegetabley nose, he’s still one of the most popular kids in their school and not to worry about it, but that would confirm the nose drama so he stays quiet.

They’ve been friends for years now, dating back to his first day of primary school when Louis sat down next to Harry on the letter mat and offered him a chocolate-coated HobNob to stop talking so slowly. Harry never quite managed it, but Louis stuck around anyway, generally making a nuisance of himself and eventually winning Zayn over by showing interest in his love of comic books and all the things Harry couldn’t even think about without yawning a little. Niall had latched on because Harry had the best lunches, care of his lovely housekeeper Lucy who prepared him treats from her country. He liked the food and he liked the company so he’d just never really left. Harry’s glad; Niall always gives the best hugs.

Now, however, he’s certainly not helping, and his suggestion of planting Louis’ nose in soil to see if it grows any smaller noses on it is received with a shriek and a whack to the head. Harry didn’t even know potatoes grew underground, so that’s informative.

"That’s it. I’m calling my mums plastic surgeon and I’m having it done like Khloe Kardashian’s." Louis threatens, waving his phone around like a weapon of cellular destruction. In fairness, with the connections he has, he could cause terrific amounts of damage.

[tbc]

//

 

**[Scene mentioning a bad grade in something (introduction of Andy in background) from Mr. Chaloner. Leads he and Zayn to brainstorm how to rectify. Anne reacts sternly, idea to set him up with Ms. Phillips put into action]  
**

**[Nick reacting badly to Harry negotiating his marks. Somehow include sentence “You should really learn to park.” “What’s the need when everywhere has valet?”]  
**

 

**//**

**[Snippet of banter to put early-ish in fic. Not first introduction of Nick]**

"So tell me," Harry grins, shooting a sardonic look at Nick’s typical grungy apparel, "are you like one of those cartoon people whose wardrobes are nothing but the same outfit over and over again?"

Nick doesn’t even spare him a glance, tipping half a carton of milk into his cereal bowl before pouting at it miserably. He does it every morning; Harry knows the drill. “At least I’m not flouncing around spending my inheritance on nautical themed silk ascots, unlike someone I know.”

Harry scowls, already reaching for a new bowl. He passes it to Nick, making sure he takes in the full force of his offence. “That was one time, and anchor print was in that season. Dazed said so.”

Nick mimics his voice, already filling the new bowl without thanks, the ungrateful twat. “Oooh, well if Dazed said so…”

"Dazed is the Bible of London style, Nick, everyone knows that." Harry says testily. Nick’s so infuriating sometimes, all smug and collegey with his stupid flannels and weird indie band t-shirts. As if he knows anything about fashion. Harry tells him so.

Nick laughs, putting his hands up in surrender. They’re nice hands, Harry thinks, big and warm-looking with pretty, artist fingers. It’s a weird thought, and he pushes it away almost as quickly as it flashes in his mind. “I won’t deny that Styles, you’ve always had a flair for the sartorial. Remember that fetching purple hoodie with the sparkles you wore all through first form-“

He shudders at the thought. “I was thirteen, Nicholas, we all make mistakes.”

"False. I was perfect."

Harry snorts. “As if. I’ve seen the pictures of your trench-length silver puffer jacket. It was offensive to my eyes.”

Nick narrows his eyes at him, shooting a particularly owlish look over his cereal. “Who showed you that? Was it Gemma? She swore she burned those.”

It was actually Nick’s friend Pixie, the one aptly named to match her haircut and always sporting a moody Chihuahua. She’s one of his charming trust fund friends who comes over occasionally and eats them out of Jaffa Cakes. Harry likes her a lot, even if Jaffa Cakes are his favourite.

"Maybe," he shrugs, "or maybe not. You’ll never know. Speaking of those delightful pictures, though, I need a ride."

Nick raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You need a ride,” he repeats. “Don’t you have your own very expensive and very functional Range Rover to wreck havoc in?”

Harry fumbles, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, “Well, technically _yes_ , but I’ve kind of acquired a few fines-“

"You don’t even have your full license yet! How have you already racked up fines?" Nick’s smirking, and it’s weirdly hot, no matter how much Harry wants to wipe the smug expression off his face.

Harry shoots him a steely glare, pressing on. “The point is, _Nicholas_ , mums banned me from driving without a fully licensed driver, and who else in this house has nothing better to do but drive me to Portobello Market than you?”

Nick snorts, turning back to his cereal and munching serenely, “If you think I’m driving you to Portobello you have another thing coming, Harold. And anyway, I’m busy. Daisy’s new boyfriend is performing in Shepard’s Bush and I promised I’d show.”

"Portobello’s on the way to Shepard’s Bush!" Harry protests. He can feel his nose scrunching and arms folding in defiance despite him.

Nick looks at him blankly, but the undercurrent of a grin twitching at his lips gives him away. “Is it? Well, that’s a shame. Ta for now, Harry.”

He stands up from the counter, depositing his bowl in the sink with a half-hearted rinse and preparing to leave. Harry scoots across, blocking him from reaching the door almost a fraction too late. He has to kick Nick’s ankle, albeit gently, out of the doorway, resulting in a frankly unwarranted hiss.

"What do you want, Harry?" Nick asks exasperatedly, scrubbing at his eyes with the base of his palm like he’s just _so_ exhausted.

"A ride," Harry repeats, "and don’t forget I have those pictures of your silver puffer coat and I’m not afraid to tweet them."

Nick’s fingers slide apart, revealing his very hazel irises as he eyes Harry wearily. “You wouldn’t…” he says slowly.

"I wouldn’t," Harry confirms, beaming up at him, "not unless you drive me to Portobello."

He knows he’s won when Nick emits a particularly loud sigh, rolling his eyes as he pushes Harry through the doorway with practiced ease. He could have done this five minutes earlier and speared himself the blackmail, but despite his complaints Nick’s never been great at denying Harry what he wants. It’s why they work, and he’s certainly not complaining.

"Try and cut your primping down to the minute," Nick says, already sashaying towards the garage, "we leave in five."

Not even the use of ‘primping’ - Harry doesn’t primp, alright? He just likes to look good - can diminish his good mood, and he’s bouncing up and down the stairs in record time.

 

//

 

Driving with Nick has become such a regular feat that they both have it down to an art. Harry fiddles with the stereo knobs until he finds something he’s heard of, and Nick dutifully complains. If it’s a song Harry’s not crazy about he doesn’t kick too much of a fuss when Nick inevitably turns it back to the mopey university radio station, but if it’s something he does like then Nick allows him to keep it on, at the price that he criticises everything from the singers pitchy high notes to the producers back catalogue all throughout it. Harry finds it oddly entertaining, so even though they spend most of the car ride making snide remarks at one another, it’s all in good spirits.

This time, Nick lucks out when all Harry can find and vaguely recognise is the new Macklemore song on Capital, but they both think he’s a bit of a twat so Nick’s spares no time in changing it back to his usual station. Deep house beats fill the car and Nick taps his fingers on the steering wheel accordingly as they delve deeper into jam-packed Westminster.

About three minutes in, Harry gets tired of hearing the same line repeated for about the billionth time and goes back to fiddling with the knobs. Nick’s hand catches his just as he’s about to change song.

"Don’t you dare," he threatens, not taking his eyes off the road, "this is Disclosure."

"I don’t care who it is," Harry says testily, "and I certainly don’t care what happens when a fire starts to burn for another two minutes."

Nick laughs then, a throaty noise too embarrassing to be fraudulent. He lefts go of Harry, grip sliding back around the wheel. “Go on then, just this once.”

Harry grins, searching around the stations. He goes back and forth until he finally lands on that Miley tune and to Nick’s chagrin, joins in immediately. He makes impromptu dance moves as he sings, and Nick laughs heartily beside him.

"Good God, Styles, what was that?" Nick blusters, as Harry attempts a particularly ambitious twerk. Well, as much as one can twerk when they’re seat-belted into a Mercedes.

"It’s called twerking," Harry scoffs, affronted, "Miley does it."

"No," Nick corrects, "Miley attempts it. Lil Kim and Nicki Minaj do it and you embarrass yourself."

Harry sticks his tongue out at him because he’s a child, but he’s grinning regardless. “Does it get tiring being so far up your own arse?” He asks sweetly.

Nick barks a laugh, but he doesn’t deny it. “You have no idea,” he winks, in a tone so suggestive Harry feels it in his dick. A blush creeps up on his cheeks against his will and he focuses intently on the pre-Christmas crowds outside to hide it from Nick.

The rest of the drive is spent in moderate silence, a bit uncomfortable and a lot loaded. Neither of them dare to change the radio station again so they have to sit through ‘Blurred Lines’ and Imagine Dragons before they finally reach Notting Hill, and when Harry gets out he can see Nick already reaching for the stereo. Muttering a quick thanks, he slams the door and rushes down the street, promptly forgetting what he came here for.

He feels weird, and not the good weird, and he can’t shake the sensation all afternoon, even when he joins the boys for a spot of retail therapy on Bond Street.

He misses Nick, he realises, halfway through his mint chocolate frappuccino and caught off-guard by the sudden flash of clarity. The whole thing seems so stupid, and he ends up investing in three different pairs of Chelsea boots to distract himself.

It almost works.

 

//

 

They don’t meet the new kid until P.E. the next day. They’re distracted from Louis prancing around the football field like he owns it, while Niall keeps up a running commentary from side of field. Zayn’s lying beneath a tree reading a heavy looking book and Harry’s standing uncertainly next to the goalpost, unsure of what he’s meant to be doing. Thankfully, Louis’ keeping the ball busy on the opposite side of the field, but Harry’s knowledge of football is theoretical at best, and dismal when put into practice. He leans against the pole and instead investigates the sad little creature following Miss Delevingne like a lost puppy.

He’s tall, in ill-fitting jeans and a grungy plaid shirt much like the kind Nick wears but not nearly as well styled, as if he actually wears them for the commodity rather than the fact they identify him as cool and alternative. His hair is short and sandy, cut in a way that indicates he’s recently shaved it all off, but his face is kind and open, and in this moment, absolutely terrified.

He has very thick eyebrows and Harry likes him immediately.

The match trickles to a halt, less of an official decision and more of an occasion in which everyone systematically stops playing to find out who on earth is following their teacher so faithfully. He’s relieved, as now he doesn’t have to fail spectacularly at saving footballs from crashing into the net and pretend to be sorry about it when Louis gives him a bollocking. He skips towards the group forming around Miss Delevingne, their leggy P.E. teacher half the sixth form is in love with. Upon joining the lads, Louis punches him in the arm as if he knew what Harry was thinking.

The boy is introduced as Liam from Wolverhampton, and he’s eighteen and can’t dress to save himself. The entire time he’s being introduced he stares pointedly at the ground, scuffing his already patchy trainers on the grass and pretending the entire class hadn’t already lost interest after ‘West Midlands’.

Harry takes pity on him, and the moment Miss Delevingne stops talking he beckons him over. It takes a few tries before Liam notices, but when he does he widens his eyes and checks behind him as if Harry were talking to somebody else.

“Come here,” Harry says finally, tossing an imaginary lasso and watching wearily as Liam fails to do anything with it. Beside him, Zayn chuckles at the numerous failed attempts to catch his attention, yet makes no attempt at enticing the boy their way.

He eventually catches on and trudges towards them, running a hand through the short hairs of his head. “Do you mean me?” He mumbles, wary sounding.

“Of course we mean you! Harry here has been having an aneurysm trying to get your attention. It’s about time, mate,” Louis barks, clapping him on the back. He clearly underestimates the rock hard solidness of Liam’s muscles because his hand comes back a little crumpled, and his expression just as broken. Louis talks a lot of crap, but he’s a softie at heart. He has the macaroni art from his sisters pinned up in his locker to prove it.

Liam barely seems to register the clap, sending Louis an apologetic look. “Are you alright?” He asks, furrowing his eyebrows until he looks almost puppy-like.

“I’m fine,” Louis snaps, and Harry knows he is. His ego’s just been wounded a bit, but he’ll be over it by lunchtime. Liam however doesn’t know this, so Harry shoots him his most reassuring smile.

“Welcome Liam,” he beams, waving genially. He elbows Zayn until he too glances up from his phone long enough to wave his hand vaguely while Niall goes straight in for a hug. There’s an awkward moment when Liam doesn’t quite now what to do with a blonde Irishman wrapped around his chest, but he eventually gives in and tightens his arms around Niall in return.

“Hi,” he smiles, “um, thanks.”

Unlatching from Liam, Niall introduces himself before gesturing at the rest of them. “The mute one’s Zayn, if ya wondering. He’s too busy texting his girlfriend to contribute anything interesting to the conversat-“ he’s interrupted by Zayn catching him the throat and rubbing his knuckles into his hair, which earns a baffled laugh from Niall.

“Shut up, Niall. Hello Liam,” Zayn says calmly, offering his free hand and staring soulfully into his eyes. Liam looks a bit lost for words, which is by no means an unusual reaction to the trademark Malik smoulder – Harry still falls for it occasionally, and he and Zayn have been best friends since they were five.

Fumbling a bit, Liam shakes his hand and proceeds to stare at it in awe for the following few seconds as if he isn’t quite sure that really happened. Niall, still caught under Zayn’s elbow, goes on. “The prat playing footie in ankle boots is Harry-“

“They’re _winklepickers_ ,” Harry sniffs, affronted, “and I didn’t mean to. I just couldn’t find any trainers this morning.”

Louis eyes him suspiciously, “You couldn’t find a single pair of trainers?”

“Well, none that matched the regulation gym shorts correctly, no,” he admits, “plenty for other occasions, but my tennis coach says grass can seriously compromise the bounce in my tennis Nike’s.”

Niall’s attention sparks then, “Wait, how many trainers do you own?”

Harry shrugs, trying to picture them in his head as he counts them, “Eight or nine? Not that many. I don’t wear trainers all that often.”

Three matching sets of disbelieving expressions meet his, only Zayn nodding like this is completely understandable. His collection of leather jackets rivals genuine leatherworks, so he has no leg to stand on. Not that Zayn would judge anyway, because they take each other’s closets as seriously as they take one another.

“Eight or nine trainers and you chose winkle-whatevers?” Louis asks slowly, lips quirking up in that way they do when he finds something Harry does so stupid it’s almost endearing.

“Winklepickers,” Harry repeats, and he spreads the fabric of his ugly black gym shorts to prove his point, “and they’re the closest match, see?”

The lads nod a little reluctantly, like despite the absurdity of the situation they sort of see where Harry’s coming from. Liam, bless him, still seems a fraction confused.

“Why do you own so many trainers?” He asks him, as if the thought of having to choose between two or more pairs of shoes in the morning would send him to an early grave.

Harry just shrugs, “I own a lot of shoes,” and that’s that, really.

Niall shakes his head in disbelief, but he’s smiling as he gestures back to Liam. “Now that that’s solved – thanks Harry – meet Tommo. He’s sick at footie and a hit with the birds-“ Louis elbows him, “-what? You are! He’s being a knob right now but welcome to the gang.”

Liam outstretches his hand, probably under the belief that Louis would meet him halfway for a cordial handshake before the period was over. “Nice to meet you, Tommo."

“It’s Louis,” he says coldly, staring down at Liam’s hand with no intention of retaliating. The following seconds pass terribly slow, the air so tense you could slice it with a knife, and by the time Liam’s retracted his hand, Louis is already leaving.

“Come on, lads,” he calls, already a few steps ahead of them, “lunch is calling!”

Niall shrugs and walks after him, and after sending Harry a befuddled look, Zayn following in suit. Liam’s left looking lost and as if he’s been publicly disgraced, which in a way he sort of has. Harry rubs a reassuring hand over his shoulder, and gently pushes him towards the receding class.

“Don’t worry about Louis, he gets like this sometimes. It’s nothing personal,” he says in his most reassuring voice, the kind he usually reserves for when Dusty has trapped herself beneath the wardrobe and refuses to come out for her dinner, “when Niall first started hanging out with us he refused to acknowledge him for a full week. You just have to ease him into it a bit, y’know?”

Liam looks like he most definitely doesn’t know, but he also looks like the whole concept of _Harry_ confuses him to death, so he lets it go. His whole look – clothes, face, body language, terrible Primark Converse knock-offs – just screams for help, and suddenly Harry has a flash of brilliance.

“Liam, how do you feel about makeovers?”

 

//

 

He swings by Zayn’s terrace house entirely too late for a school day, skidding to a halt and accidentally reversing into a pot plant. Zayn barely looks up from his phone, crossing his gate to enter the car.

"That’s the third time this month, Harry," he says, as if he’s commenting on the weather and not the fact Harry can’t park to save himself. "My mums wondering what keeps happening to her gardenias."

Harry sends a mental apology to Mrs. Malik, reminding himself to surprise her with a bouquet next time he sees her. She’s hopelessly fond of him anyway, treats him like a second son, so he doubts the consequences will be too bad.

Harry and Zayn have known each other since they were five and their fathers did something boring and business-related together. Mr. Malik has tried explaining it to him before, but he seems to be under the impression that speaking of Harry’s father rounds up painful memories, so he usually just ends up ruffling Harry’s hair and calling him a good lad. It’s fine either way, because Harry doesn’t really care.

Des isn’t dead or anything, in fact he’s off squandering some poor sods money in Majorca last he heard, but then the story he gets is diluted and potentially biased coming from his mother. The divorce was messy, and Anne still gets a scary glint in her eye whenever his name is raised. He and Gemma learnt to stop asking about him fairly quickly, and the fact that the only contact he ever attempts to make with them is a postcard from somewhere exotic at Christmas is hardly enough to have them missing him. Harry’s happy, and father figures have never exactly been skint in his life. Pete’s still around, albeit with a fifth wife in Hawaii, but he regularly calls in and always sends Harry those delicious macadamia chocolates you can only ever get in duty-free. He and Anne actually get on, mostly because of Nick, who his mum adores and would probably fight to adopt if he weren’t already a legal adult. And then there’s Robin, his new step-dad, who’s reliable and kind and never complains when Harry needs a last minute ride across the city.

He has it pretty good, and it’s hard to get caught up on someone you barely remember when so many others are present and love you.

"Hello?" Zayn interrupts his thoughts, waving a hand before his eyes, "that was a stop sign!"

"I totally paused!" Harry exclaims, even though he totally didn’t. Oh well, he will next time.

Zayn rolls his eyes, returning back to the yearning cry of his phone. All he does these days is text his girlfriend Perrie, and Harry’s happy for them - honestly - but he does miss best friend time. Zayn says when Harry has a boyfriend he’ll understand and ignore him for his phone all the time, but high school boys are idiots and apparently, Harry has very high standards.

His ex-boyfriend told him that. He hasn’t dated anyone since.

"I have news!" he exclaims, to distract himself from how fucking depressing a thought that is.

Zayn looks up blithely, more of an automatic reaction than genuinely paying attention, “Being?”

"We’re giving Liam a makeover!"

Zayn perks up immediately, topping his standing record for time spent not staring at his phone, “Sick! How did you get him to agree to it? No offence, but he seems a bit wet.”

"He’s nice," Harry says a tad defensively, and Zayn shrugs.

"Well obviously," he says, before confusion washes over his face, "Louis hates him."

"Louis hates everybody he doesn’t know," Harry says firmly, and Zayn nods in agreement. Zayn and Louis had hated each other for a whole three days before Zayn got over his protectiveness of Harry and Louis decided fine, he could have two best friends. They’re absolute fiends together now, and Harry’s glad Niall’s there to slow them all down a bit.

"What’s the sudden interest with Liam anyway?" Zayn asks thoughtfully, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Harry hums non-commitally, “I’m doing some good for the community.”

"Giving the new kid a makeover?"

"Giving him a sixth form experience worth remembering!" Harry huffs, taking a potentially illegal right turn down their schools driveway. It’s long and serpenty and bordered by leafy oaks casting shadows that would be pretty if London ever got any bloody sunshine. As an afterthought, he adds, "Would you say I’m selfish?"

"Not to your face," Zayn shrugs, already back to jabbing at his screen, "Why? Did Grimmy say something again? You know he’s just going through his idealistic uni-student phase, right? Don’t let it get to you, Haz."

"I know," Harry mumbles, not even attempting the rear-view mirror parking his mums’ been trying to teach him for months. He slows to a stop instead, close enough to the curb that it almost looks intentional. That should do.

He beams across at Zayn, who looks like he’s considering commenting on Harry’s parking skill - or lack of it - but rather wisely chooses against it. They got here with minimal damage made to public property, so it’s already an improvement on Tuesdays dent to Mr. Chaloner’s Peugeot 206 (because apparently it’s the unwritten rule that all teachers own sad, ugly French cars). Harry hopes he doesn’t know it was him because their debate marks come out today and he’s striving for an A* average. He’s sort of done him a favour anyway - the dent might inspire Mr. Chaloner to buy a new car, one that doesn’t look like it belongs to someone’s crotchety great aunt.

"I’m going to be more ‘socially aware’ this year," he quotes, waiting for Zayn’s obligatory nod of approval, "and I’m starting with Liam. We need to help the less fortunate - he can’t help being from Wolverhampton. We’re gonna make him one of us."

Zayn stares at him for a long time, probably weighing the pros and cons of adding another member to their cosy group whilst also considering the benefits of a shopping project. Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, he nods. Harry doesn’t quite squeal in triumph, but the sound he makes is hardly far off.

 

//

 

**[Makeover scene – somehow include the line “Are you suffering from buyers remorse?” “God no, nothing like that.”]**

**[Some scene including Nick’s friends/introduce Nick getting radio show at uni]**

**[Vaguely introduce Andy and mention party]**

**[Harry at home before party deciding what to wear. Nick working with Robin on law stuff and being wow-ed by how great Harry looks. Try and fit in “What are you wearing?” “A ----------“ “Says who?” “Calvin Klein.” Nick getting jealous/worried and later insisting he should go check up on them even though it’s a valley party and if any of his friends ever find out he’ll never hear the end of it.]**

**//  
**

**[Clueless, Party in the Valley's scene except the Valley's is now Peckham, East London]**

 

They reach the party on the wrong side of fashionably late, but it’s them, so it’s fine. Niall leads the way, heading straight for the kitchen where someone’s predictably playing beer pong. Harry files that thought away for later on tonight, when he’s had a drink and his multi-tasking abilities have magically improved. He’s always better at sports when he’s had a few, which baffles Niall completely. He’s been begging Harry to come drunk to P.E. for years now so they’ll at least have a decent chance at winning against Max’s team for once.

Straightening out his collar so that it shows off his clavicles shamelessly, Harry slinks into the living room, littered with tipsy schoolmates and empty beer bottles. Taylor waves at him from across the divan, deep in conversation with a group of pretty girls from their year. He bounces over, accepting the mixer she passes him with full-bodied enthusiasm. She swoops in for a kiss to his cheek and he breathes in her lovely girl smell of girly things. He loves girls.

“You’re cheerful,” she comments, nestling in under his arm. She’s a bit taller than him, so it’s a little awkward, but neither of them bothers to re-adjust. “When did the night start for you lot?”

Harry flutters his eyelashes at her. “The moment I saw your beautiful face,” he gushes.

Taylor rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t move away. Around her, her friends giggle, leaning over to ruffle Harry’s hair and coo over his shirt. He spends the next few minutes being petted and babbled over, before the sight of a lonely and tragic Liam leaning against the doorway stops his heart in its tracks. He’s scanning over the party and not even getting a little bit involved. Something must be done.

“I need to go,” he frowns at Taylor, directing her concerned eyes over to Liam, “he looks so sad. I have to help him.”

Taylor sighs, planting another delicate kiss to his cheek. He wonders if her bright red lipstick will leave a mark, and then wonders whether it will clash with his shirt. Deciding it doesn’t, he leaves her and her friends and makes his way over to where Liam is half-heartedly picking up CDs and putting them back in their correct place.

“Liam,” he says gently, “what are you doing?”

Liam startles, shooting Harry an alarmed look over his shoulder. Realizing it’s just Harry, he visibly relaxes, and steps away from the messy CD pile.

“Just looking around,” he mutters, eyeing the party warily.

“Why don’t you have a drink?” Harry chirps, snatching an unopened beer from above the speakers. A girl from his Debate class throws him a dirty look, but when she realizes it’s Harry she just giggles and smiles coyly. Liam looks on in fascination.

“I can’t, I only have one working kidney,” he recites, as if it’s something he’s been told so often he’s wrote-learned the answer. “And how did you _do_ that?”

Harry inspects his torso, wondering if there’s a way to tell whether his kidney really is dysfunctional just by staring at his simple grey t-shirt very hard. Nothing jumps out at him like in Alien, so it can’t be that bad. “How did I do what?”

“ _That_ ,” Liam urges, widening his eyes at him, as if Harry is being deliberately obtuse, “you just took that girls drink and she looked stoked about it.”

Harry shrugs, turning back to look at the girl, who’s now dancing along to the latest Rihanna track with a group of people including Louis. “She’s very nice, I guess.”

Louis catches his eye in the crowd, and then shifts to look at Liam, looking troubled and most un-Louis like. Harry puts it down to him being worried about Liam’s lack of social skills, and resolves that he will make Liam dance with someone fit _and_ enjoy it.

He does a turn of the room, and eventually lands on blonde Andy from English class, who slightly resembles a Californian surfer despite living in a country with an 885mm annual rainfall. He grabs Liam’s hand and hurls him in the depth of the makeshift dance floor.

Some early 2000s hip hop song is playing, one he vaguely remembers from Ed Sheeran’s disco-themed birthday party that year, and he guides Liam through it, lifting his hands in the air at the right times and moving him around enthusiastically. He catches Andy’s eye over Liam’s shoulder and makes a show of them dancing as seductively as he can manage when Liam insists on being as rhythmic as a brick wall. Andy grins and makes his way over, so it must have worked somewhat.

By the time he joins them Liam’s taken a chug of liquid courage, all kidney crisis forgotten, and is making movements that in the dark can be mistaken for dancing. Pretending to lean over for a hug, he pushes Andy into Liam, making them stumble into a few couples before Andy rectifies them and helps him straighten up. Liam positively beams at the attention, and Harry leaves them to it, ready for another drink and an attempt at his fifth consecutive beer pong victory run. Being such a brilliant matchmaker is _exhausting_.

 

//

 

He ends up making it a few steps out of the lounge before his attention is claimed by familiar shrieking upstairs, and he bounds up the staircase in record time, successfully managing not to rip his jeans or impale himself on a rogue bookcase. He’s greeted by the sight of Perrie sitting on the bathroom floor, a discoloured towel around her shoulders and her friend Jesy rubbing a lavender-coloured potion into her bleached blonde hair. Zayn looks on in horror from the doorway.

“Why are you doing this?” He keeps asking, looking desperately from her to Jesy, who ignores him in favour of spurting a huge dollop of dye onto Perrie’s roots.

“Because I’m keeping it real,” Perrie replies matter-of-factly, attempting to check herself out in her phone reflection. She eventually gives up, and takes a selfie instead. Jesy nods at it approvingly, and Perrie beams back at her.

“She’s keeping it real,” Jesy repeats solemnly.

Zayn knows better than to argue with Jesy Nelson, especially where her best friends are concerned, but in a last attempt at bravado he pulls his phone out. “Babe, don’t make me call your mum.”

The girls stop what they’re doing instantly to stare at him in horror. “You wouldn’t…” Perrie says lowly, and Harry takes this as his cue to leave. Zayn got himself into that hole and he could get himself out of it too. Personally, he thinks the lilac looks darling.

Downstairs, the party is thumping through the walls, and he joins in for a chorus of ‘Teenage Dream’ before finding Niall in the kitchen. A heated game of Beer Pong is in progress, and he grabs a drink before inspecting the situation. Niall’s in the lead, but Barbara isn’t far behind him, and she’s like, Hungarian or something, which Harry is fairly sure means she can drink the United Kingdom _and_ Ireland under the table.

He watches for a few more minutes before Jade dances into the kitchen, holding a single playing card caught between her fingers. “Who’s up for a round of Suck and Blow?”

Liam and Andy follow behind her, as well as a few more people, and soon they’re all milling around the island, passing a card between them via suction and the determination not to fuck up and accidentally snog the person next to them. Harry feels a flicker of disappointment when Liam doesn’t drop it on his way to Andy, but that thought is shackled to the back of his mind when instead of feeling the cold, dry touch of a Queen of Hearts, he’s instead greeted by the _warm_ , dry touch of Andy’s lips. He squirms, pushing Andy away, and smiles hesitantly when everyone laughs.

“Take it upstairs, ya slags,” Niall calls out from behind a stack of cups, obviously not sensing Harry’s annoyance. Surely he knows how Harry feels about high school boys by now – he’s only told them every week for the past twelve sodding years.

Harry laughs unconvincingly before quickly slipping out of the room to find Louis. He hears someone yell “It’s just a game!” and that may be true, but it doesn’t mean Harry wants to kiss Andy any more than he has to. (Which he doesn’t, at all.)

He eventually finds Louis still on the dance floor, breaking out in lewd dance moves to make his friend Eleanor laugh. They look sweet together, and Harry feels bad interrupting their moment when Liam barrels into him from behind.

“Where are you going?” He mumbles into the arch between Harry’s shoulders, before stepping back and shooting him a betrayed look. Harry feels bad, especially because the whole situation will have seemed so weird to Liam. Instead, he takes his hand and guides him over to Louis and Eleanor. Liam’s eyes widen at Louis’ moves, but he says nothing at all. Harry’s impressed.

They’re in the middle of a particularly tipsy rendition of ‘The Motto’ when Andy joins them again, this time leaning heavily into Liam as they sing Drake’s woes of there being too much money in the way. Liam giggles into Andy’s hair and Harry watches them happily, a snogging Zayn and Perrie catching his eye from the darker crevices of the room. He beams at them too, and then at Niall, smiling fondly at Barbara, who’s flaunting her beer pong victory by making him make all her drinks for the rest of the night. Carefully, Harry disentangles himself from the group, slowly backing out into the garden where he can admire his handiwork from afar.

All his friends look happy and relaxed and enamoured, and Harry wants to screenshot this moment so that he can look at it and smile whenever his favourite jeans don’t fit properly or they run out of Twiglets at home. He snaps a picture instead, choosing an appropriately sepia-d filter and calling it “Palstagram”.

He takes a little wander around the garden then, admiring the couples who braved the chilly waters of the pool and folding their discarded clothes onto the bench where they’ll be dry from splashes. The sky is clear and the stars are bright and his new shirt is just so lovely and Harry feels lit from within.

He’s on his way back into the house when his phone rings, and he barely bothers to check the caller before his mother’s voice greets him. “Harry, darling, where are you?” She asks, exhaustion creeping in her tone.

“I’m just at a party, mum,” he replies, because his family has employed a policy of honesty ever since he can remember. “With the boys.”

Anne sighs, and Harry imagines her taking a long sip of her nightly chamomile. “Can you be home in twenty minutes? I forgot we have brunch with your grandparents tomorrow morning, and you need to be fresh.”

Harry audibly gulps, as having come in Louis’ car it means he has to beg him for a ride. Even with a taxi the journey back home will still take at least forty-five minutes. “I may be a bit longer than twenty minutes…”

“Why?” Anne asks, suddenly worried. “You’re only across the river. Aren’t you? Where are you? Harry?”

Whoops. He mutters unintelligible words into the speaker before assuring her he’ll be home in no time, which Anne seems to take with a grain of salt, ending the phone call with a sharp, “I’m serious Harry, I want you home as soon as possible.”

He takes the last steps into the house in a run, almost crashing straight into Andy and Liam, who are loitering around the French doors. “Have you seen Louis?” he asks them, “I have to go home, like, right now.”

Andy shrugs. “I can take you.”

Harry smiles gratefully, but shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your fun,” he says, elbowing Liam subtly in the ribs, “I’ll just go find Louis who will moan about it and make me buy him frozen yogurt for the next three years as payment.”

He eventually flags Louis down, who gives him a dead arm before cheerfully leading the way to his Range Rover. His desired payment is, in fact, frozen yogurt, but Harry’s barely in the front seat before Andy is pulling him out and replacing him with Liam.

“Wassgoingon?” He asks stupidly, as Andy explains that it’s far more convenient for Louis to take Liam, who also lives in Kensington, than to take Harry, which means a longer drive up to Primrose Hill. Andy lives in Hampstead, so it all works out.

Louis looks at Harry for confirmation, and he shrugs in return, letting himself be lead to the passenger seat of Andy’s car. Liam waves at him cheerfully from inside Louis’ car, and he watches them drive away. They’re probably playing Adele, and Harry wishes he were there to sing along with them.

 

//

 

The drive home with Andy isn’t actually that bad, but seems to go slower than he remembers the drive to. Harry’s complete ignorance of the area is most likely a contributing factor, but the GPS reassures them that they are in safe hands.

For most of the ride Andy’s been babbling on about some song or dance and Harry’s been doing his best job at seeming politely interested without actually having to contribute anything solid. It’s not that he doesn’t like Andy, it’s just that he’s into sports and beer and pranks whilst Harry’s likes petting dogs and shopping sprees. In a group it’s fine, but one on one he’s painfully aware of just how little they have in common.

He decided now is as good as a moment to bring up Liam, and the printed Instagram picture he allegedly has pinned up in his locker. When Andy doesn’t catch on to the small hints, he decides bluntness is the only viable method.

“So, Liam looked great tonight…” He starts, looking at Andy expectantly.

Andy chuckles. “Yeah, he did. Did you dress him?”

Harry beams, glad someone can recognize his touch of sartorial expertise. “I did! The striped top really brought out his cheekbones, I think. Don’t you?”

Once again, Andy chuckles, but less attentive this time. “Sure, I guess. So: have you been seeing anyone lately?”

Harry’s taken by surprise, and it takes him a moment to answer. “No, I haven’t,” he answers slowly, “neither has Liam.”

Andy shoots him a confused look. “Liam? What?”

“Liam hasn’t been seeing anyone,” Harry confirms.

“I was asking if you were seeing anyone, not Liam,” Andy replies, turning onto a long, miserable looking street.

“No, I’m not. But that doesn’t matter,” Harry shrugs, “I just want to see you settled.”

He gives Andy a pointed look, attempting to send thoughts of Liam and his very sharp jawline into Andy’s mind. A gradual grin lights up Andy’s face, and he slows the car until they’re parked outside a kebab shop with no one around them except a flickering phone booth in the distance.

“I knew it,” Andy says, smiling smugly out his window, “I knew it.”

Harry has no idea what he knows, but in this moment all he cares about is getting home. “Why have we stopped?” He asks him, turning to Andy with an imploring look.

But Andy is no longer on his side of the car and instead is leaning in, pressing his mouth to Harry’s determinedly. His lips are dry and he tastes like stale beer and it’s officially the least romantic kiss Harry has ever had.

He employs all of his strength to push him away, but Andy doesn’t seem affected. “I knew it,” he repeats, and this time Harry can’t brush it off.

“You knew _what_?”

Andy grins sappily, leaning in for another kiss. “That you like me,” he says, carding a hand through Harry’s curls. He doesn’t let him get as close this time, pushing Andy back onto his side of the car with all his might.

“ _As if!_ ” Harry cries, shooting him the crossest look he can muster. Nick says it makes him look like a kitten whose feelings have been hurt, and for some reason the thought of Nick makes him feel a little less lost.

He’s still a lot lost, though, considering.

Andy drums his fingers on the steering wheel, visibly annoyed. “I don’t get you, Harry. You flirt with me all night and the moment I make a move you hit me? What’s with you?”

“I haven’t been flirting with you all night,” Harry blinks at him, “Liam has.”

“Liam?” Andy asks, oblivious, “What the fuck does Liam have to do with this?”

“Liam likes you. You’re meant to be snogging Liam.” Harry says, as if this is obvious.

Andy just stares at him. “But I don’t want to snog Liam, I want to snog _you_.”

Suddenly all the pointed looks and dropped cards makes sense, and Harry has never felt like a bigger idiot in his life. It was directed at him all along, how didn’t he see it? Fuck, Liam will be beside himself.

Harry just really wants to be home right now.

“Why not Liam?” He asks instead, because Liam is lovely and a half and deserves somebody equally so.

Andy snickers, “You can’t be serious, babe. Liam’s nice and stuff, but be realistic.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Harry’s brow furrows despite himself, and he unleashes his fourth ever pout unto its most undeserving recipient.

“Nothing’s wrong with him, Jesus babe. He’s just… not like us. Not like you and me, you know?” Andy says, eyeing him as if he’s about to detonate at any moment.

“No,” Harry says plainly, waiting for Andy to elaborate. Seconds tick by and he doesn’t say a word, and Harry finally realizes the issue.

“You’re a snob, Andy,” he says petulantly.

Andy just stares at him for a further few seconds before he rolls his eyes and undoes his seatbelt. “Look, this is ridiculous-“ he says, flinging himself at Harry’s mouth.

Harry wrestles out of his clutch, managing to open the door and exit the vehicle. He slams the door into Andy’s face, who shoots him a fierce look from behind the glass. Harry begins to walk away, he refusing to give in and re-enter the car and ignoring Andy’s calls as he drives alongside him.

“Get in, Harry. You’re being an idiot,” he says, and Harry starts walking in the opposite direction.

“Styles! What the fuck, come on!” Andy tries again. Harry speeds up.

He sort of regrets it the moment he’s out of the car, acutely aware that he’s alone in Peckham with nothing but a dimly-lit kebab store and an LED-clown advertising deals on Jack Daniels. It’s dressed eerily like It, and Harry shivers in spite of himself. The last thing Harry feels like right now is more to drink - already a bit unsteady on his feet - but he can’t make himself get back in to car. With a final honk, he watches Andy’s taillights disappear around a corner, and he’s totally alone.

It takes about twenty seconds of utter bewilderment before the fear sets in, from how he’s going to get home to Anne’s inevitable disappointment to Liam’s face, downcast and puppy-dog like when he learns the truth about his rejection. Harry sighs, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as he reaches for his phone.

He’s promptly stopped by the feel of cold metal at the base of his skull.

"Give me the phone and the bag and nobody gets hurt," a sharp voice breaks the silence, all earlier reassuring growls from passing cars gone completely. He just wants to _go home_.

A short man comes into view, with a moustache like the ones Nick’s weird indie friends grow ironically. Something tells Harry his isn’t ironic, and he bites back a comment that would have made Nick snort into his Americano.

"Hurry up!” the man cries, moving the knife so that it’s pressed against his temple. Harry basically throws his bag and his phone at the Unironic Moustache Criminal, waving it a mental goodbye. He’d let a tear slip if he weren’t so fucking scared.

Unironic Moustache Criminal riffles through his satchel, seemingly pleased with its contents. He waves the knife at Harry distractedly. “Now get on the ground and count to a hundred.”

In a moment of blind stupidity, his mind falters. Harry can’t just _lie_ on the ground – he’s wearing _Burberry_. He tells Unironic Moustache Criminal so.

UMC shoots him a look so confused he fears he’s stunned him into a coma. Harry wonders whether he’d be able pry his belongings from his grubby pockets before he came back to his senses. He’s already started, so probably not.

"You’re what?" UMC asks, knife still pointed idly at Harry.

"I’m wearing Burberry! They’re a very important fashion house," Harry assures him, wondering whether he should show him the thread count.

UMC shakes his head almost as if he’s laughing, before shooting Harry an icy look. “Get on the ground or I’ll put you there!”

Harry whimpers, sending a quick prayer to the clothes gods that there’s dry cleaning in heaven. He lowers himself till he’s lying flat on the ground, maneuvering himself slightly to avoid the sparkly shards of broken bottles littered across the pavement.

UMC leaves immediately, his footsteps reverberating on the ground until Harry can no longer hear them. He counts to a hundred regardless, unsure of what else to do. Slowly, he lets himself back up.

There’s a little gravel gathered at his sleeve, but after a thorough dusting he comes off mostly unharmed. Harry stares down at the cute little hearts printed on the shirt, looking almost as droopy as he feels in this moment. He blinks back tears and sets off towards the empty phone booth across the street.

He can’t call Zayn because he’s still at the party with Perrie, and not being involved in their hair drama is worth being stuck cold and alone in the middle of East London, so he’s out of the question. Niall will be so far gone Harry doubts he’ll be able to successfully answer his phone, let alone drive around Peckham to get him. Louis had left with Liam, and Taylor and his mum are major gossips, meaning she’ll hear about his near-death experience in a heartbeat.

It’s a Saturday night in London, and who else is big enough loser to be awake and capable of coming to get him? He sighs loudly as he dials the number. Harry’s never going to live this down.

It takes three rings for Nick to answer, and when he does he sounds flustered and vaguely out of breath, like he’s been running a marathon and not mooching around the house pretending to read Vonnegut.

"Harry? What is it? It’s two in the morning, go prank call someone who cares."

"This isn’t a prank call," Harry puts on his most pathetic voice. "I’m alone and it’s dark and Andy abandoned me and then this mean man with an unironic moustache held me at knifepoint and stole my bag and I really _liked_ that bag – it was Pucci – and he made me get my new shirt dirty and now-"

He can hear murmuring in the background, and then some rustling indicating Nick is moving somewhere quieter. Harry wonders who’s there with him and what they’re doing. He feels a bit bad now.

"Harry, you still there?" Nick asks, clearer; less dazed. "Where are you?"

"Er…" Harry chuckles weakly, “Peckham."

He crosses his fingers behind his back, praying that for once in his life Nick wont take the piss. He can when they got home, but right now Harry just needs the knowledge that his bed and his cat and his housekeeper are all sights he will see in the next hour.

Nick’s gone weirdly silent on the line, and Harry wonders whether he’s gone back to his friends or whoever’s with him. A bit rude of him if he did, he thinks briefly.

Finally Nick speaks, his voice oddly wavering. If it were anybody else, Harry would almost say he sounds concerned. “I’m on my way. Be careful, alright?”

Harry nods, before remembering Nick can’t actually see him. Nick seems to get the gist anyway, letting out a low laugh – probably knows Harry well enough to recognize the silence.

"You owe me so bad," Nick says, before clicking off, tone returning to his usual sarcastic bite. Harry’s relieved, not quite sure how to communicate with Nick when they’re not constantly at each others throats.

He feels weird then, uplifted a bit. Safe, maybe. Mostly he’s just glad he’s going home. But there’s something else, an excited little frisson of butterflies fluttering at the pit of his stomach. Nick had sounded worried then, even if only for a few seconds.

Harry doesn’t understand why it comes as such a surprise: he and Nick don’t _hate_ each other. Sure, they fight a lot, but it’s just bickering. Harry would probably cry at his funeral and Nick would at least stop texting for a second at his. Maybe just during the eulogy, but still.

So him all jittery like this is unwarranted. His mental telling-off does nothing to quieten the butterflies, and he resolves to ignore them instead, reminding himself to tell Lucy that his shirt needs to go to the dry cleaners ASAP tomorrow morning. Also, there’s a new Topman opening in Mayfair tomorrow and as a frequent buyer, he’s on the guest list.

Regardless, he still feels a little weird.

 

//

 

Around forty minutes later Nick’s Mercedes S-Class turns the corner, because he’s environmentally conscious but not above using his fathers’ credit card for the ‘essentials’.

He’s not alone.

Harry emerges from the phone booth, self-conscious now that he knows he has an audience other than Nick. This is probably who he was with when Harry called, and it makes him uneasy. He can’t see the guy properly in the dark, but he doesn’t look very impressed.

Nick comes out to greet him, or to mock him, or to complain about how much of a hassle it was to get to East London on a Saturday night, but whatever he’s about to say gets caught in his throat when he sees Harry. It must be how miserable he looks, or the fact that the night is catching up with him and his curls have never been limper. He springs one just to check its bounceability and it falls down sadly without a single little bob. He sniffles a bit.

Nick stops a few feet away from him, shifting his weight awkwardly. “So you weren’t lying then? You really did get mugged?”

Exhausted and upset, Harry immediately takes the offensive. “Why would I lie about being mugged?” He spits, although it probably comes out a lot more emotional than aggressive.

Nick shrugs. “I thought maybe you didn’t think I’d come, otherwise.”

He looks lost and helpless and as if he’s contemplating giving Harry a hug. Harry could really, really do with a hug right now, but he and Nick have never had that kind of relationship. It would just be… weird.

Harry just shakes his head and lets himself into the backseat of the car. It smells like Nick’s roommates’ laundry powder that he always steals and vaguely like women’s perfume, probably from one of his glamorous party girl friends. It seems weird to him all of a sudden that Nick has a whole life outside of Harry and his family, one with university and parties and festivals and people he’s never even met. Harry still remembers him as that awkward thirteen year old, lanky and apathetic towards his father’s new bride and family. Anne would have been his second step-mother by then.

He can’t quite remember when Nick warmed to them – actually spoke at dinner, cracked jokes with his sister over Anne’s ridiculous fundraisers, started spending his winter holidays in their family home in Cheshire rather than with his own dad – just that he’s very much a staple in their household and included in all of their Christmas cards. It would be stranger to not have him there.

Vaguely, he registers that Nick is watching him from the rear-view mirror, and that Harry’s been staring at the back of his head ever since he got in the car. His blush is hidden by the night, and he turns to look out the window instead. He has no idea where they are, but the GPS chattering idly at the front of the car says the A23. He wonders how Nick knows how to navigate himself around here, living near campus around the West End.

Harry’s never been here, the last time he ventured east being when he was seven. He and Gemma were upset that their mother was re-marrying and had decided to run away together. They didn’t get much further than City of Hackney, and all they had between themselves were a packet of crisps and a thirty-year-old map of the London Underground. Neither of them had caught the tube in their life, let alone owned an Oyster card.

They’d given up when they hit Shoreditch, sulkily calling their driver Paul to come pick them up. He’d been more than happy to, and treated them to ice cream on the way back. He guesses it’s quite a nice memory, after all.

He comes back to when he hears voices from the front, one being Nick’s, playful and sounding as if he’s always about to erupt into laughter, and another one – sharper, upset. They’re discussing something boring and political, and Harry would tune out if he weren’t so interested in learning about Nick’s friend.

He’s attractive – too attractive – with long dark hair falling on his shoulders and big, soulful eyes. He’s wearing a distressed leather jacket and he may actually be prettier than Harry. He shudders at the thought.

“Cameron doesn’t give a shit about the environment, you’ve seen his policies,” Long Hair says, turning in his seat to stare at Nick meaningfully. “If anything, it’s fuckin’ Johnson with his Boris Bikes that’s doing anything to make a difference.”

Nick snorts, eyes on the road. “But who wants to be the knob in the blue Boris helmet?”

“You don’t have to wear a helmet, Nicholas,” Long Hair says exasperatedly.

Harry’s only ever heard Nick be called by his full name by actual adults, like when Pete announced he and Anne were getting divorced seven years ago. It’s not something he reminisces on particularly fondly, so the name sits uncomfortably on his tongue, like a bitter flavour he just can’t shake. Nick’s friends mostly just call him Grimmy, so maybe this isn’t just a friend.

Nick shoots him a pacifying look. “Jared, all I’m saying is that a couple of cyclists aren’t going to suddenly end pollution. Did you see the Guardian the other day? Apparently nitro-“

“-gen dioxide emissions are exceeding EU standards by other 50% in some parts of East London, yes, I know. I was the one who showed you that article.” Long Ha- Jared says testily. He looks genuinely miffed and Harry feels weirdly smug about it. “At least Boris is reaching to the people.”

This doesn’t seem to faze Nick, who merely shrugs and takes a left turn down Delancey. They’re way past the Thames now, on familiar territory that Harry can recognize and spot where he once took a sneaky piss or lost a pair of sunglasses. He settles deeper into the backseat, already feeling better.

Jared doesn’t seem to though, and hasn’t finished with his bike rant. “More people need to be informed, Nicholas. They need to be told that pollution isn’t just a distant thing melting a few ice caps in Greenland, but that’s it’s here and happening and poisoning us every day,” he places his hand on Nick’s thigh, and Harry stares at it for a little longer than usual. “Education is the first step to change, so that others can continue to make a difference when we can no longer. It’s like Marius Pontmercy says in _Les Miserables_ : ‘Let others rise to take our place, until the earth is free!’”

He says it very earnestly, and Harry is almost convinced, except there’s something wrong about that sentence. He mulls it over for a few seconds before realizing what.

“Marius didn’t say that,” Harry interrupts, Jared whipping his head around to glare at him and even Nick shooting a glance through the rear-view.

He smiles at him beatifically, like Harry is a very stupid toddler and he is a very intelligent university student-cum-bellend. Harry rarely dislikes people on the hello, but something about Jared just sits badly with him. He also wishes he’d take his hand off Nick’s thigh.

Jared’s eyes are hard as steel when he speaks. “I think I remember _Les Miserables_ accurately, and Marius Pontmercy said that.”

“Well I remember Eddie Redmayne accurately, and he didn’t. That Enjolras guy did.”

Jared’s smile sets in his face like cement, equally as cold and harsh. With a final icy look at Harry, he turns back to look out his window, his long hair flying behind him. In the mirror he can see Nick barely hide a smirk behind his fist, feigning a coughing fit. Their eyes meet for a brief second, and they grin at each other like idiots.

Nobody speaks for the next ten minutes, and Nick eventually turns down a narrow street, chock-a-block with badly parked Ford Fiestas and ornate fences peeking out from behind the unkempt shrubbery. They stop in front of the student flat with multicoloured fairy lights strung across the balcony, and though Harry doesn’t like Jared, he has to congratulate his interior design: it does look very pretty.

He’s about to mention this when Jared shoots a confused look at Nick. “What are we doing at mine? I thought we were dropping the kid off first.”

Harry pouts at the suggestion that he is a child, nearly eighteen and admittedly only _slightly_ resembling a kitten. Nick doesn’t seem that pleased either.

“He’s not a kid, and I need to get him home anyway. He’s had a rough night and Anne will go easier on him if I’m there to buffer,” he explains, sparing Jared a sympathetic look. “We can do this again another time. No step-brothers, I promise.”

He meets Harry’s eye, implying he should agree at this point. Harry sends him a cross look before mumbling something that could pass off as an agreement, despite the fact that Harry would prefer if Nick never hung out with this twat again.

Jared ignores him, instead shooting Nick a piercing glare and flouncing out of the car and to his apartment. Nick watches him for a moment before sighing loudly and following him out.

Harry watches as Nick catches up with him, rushing up the stairs and seizing his wrist. He’s too far away to hear what Nick’s saying, but it seems to work, because almost immediately Jared’s falling into his arms and they’re locked in an embrace.

New galaxies are discovered and small empires rise and fall in the time that it takes them to stop kissing, and by the time Nick let’s himself back into the car, Harry is pointedly looking the other way and concentrating very hard on a hedgehog across the street. It’s contemplating emerging from the bushes and looking very cute doing so, occasionally sticking out it’s head to nose at the weeds growing out of the cracks in the pavement. Nick watches it with him in complete silence, before turning the engine on slowly.

They drive around a bit before Harry says neutrally. “He seems nice.”

Either his tone is too telling or Nick just knows him too well, but he snorts. “Yeah, cheers for that, Styles. He was well pissed at me.”

“Why?” Harry inquires, shifting so that his knees are pressed under his chin and he can cross his arms around them. They’re getting a bit long for it to be that comfortable, and he frowns, not remembering when he grew so much. Nick was always the gangly one. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Nick gives him a pointed look, and Harry lets it pass. He can see the tall oaks of Regents Park up ahead and smiles contentedly, glad to finally be home. It’s nearly four in the morning, and the streets of Primrose Hill are empty except for them, a few cars and a bunch of rowdy youths stumbling up Fitzroy. Harry doesn’t register he can’t see them anymore until he’s parked before his own front gate.

He turns to Nick, picking idly at his seatbelt. “Are you going to see him again?”

Nick laughs weakly, scrubbing a large hand over his eyes. He glances over at Harry, and his hazel eyes have never looked prettier. “Are you going to explain what you were doing in Peckham tonight?”

Harry bites his lip, remembering the night’s events and how dead Andy is to him. He shrugs, and this time Nick’s laugh doesn’t seem so forced. In a rather gentlemanly fashion, he leans over to open Harry’s door for him, realizing a little too late the proximity this leads them to be in. Harry is nosing almost directly at Nick’s cheek, breathing in the scent of Nick’s aftershave and the grapefruit-y smell of his fancy shampoo. The combination is incredible, and he tries not to inhale too obviously. By Nick stiffening before him, he’s clearly not doing good enough a job. Finally unlocking the door, Nick returns to his seat and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Night, Harry,” he says, lifting his hand in a vague salute. He nods at the open passenger door, waiting for Harry to let himself out. He looks at it himself, at the cold London night outside and the eerie lack of noise in his neighbourhood. It’s 3:58AM and Harry doesn’t want to leave the warm confines of Nick’s car.

“Night, Nick,” he sighs, and closes the door behind him.

 

//

 

**[Day After + Shopping]**

Harry contemplates not telling the boys about the Andy fiasco, but their curiosity and Harry’s pressing desire to be the centre of attention at all times means the story’s out by Monday lunchtime. Mostly, the loss of Harry’s lovely Pucci satchel is felt greatly. Zayn promises to buy him a new one as an apology for being so caught up in his Perrie drama, and Harry remembers just how much he loves his friends.

Liam, on the other hand, is inconsolable.

[tbc]

 

//

 

**[In this time the character of Ben (Sebastian) is introduced and Harry develops a crush on him. Can't remember what I was going to do with this plot point but you get the gist]  
**

 

**//  
**

Harry basically sprints home, dragging Zayn by the cuff until they’re both crouching by his front gate for a cheeky breather, clutching their chests like old men. He’s forced him to come over to help with choosing the perfect outfit for his and Ben’s date, because Harry is indecisive on a good day and honestly, even he can admit that Zayn is a marginally better stylist.

They partake in a bit of a kerfuffle when Zayn pulls out his cigarettes and Harry all but forces him to smoke them on the opposite side of the garden. While he usually doesn’t mind smoking – even partakes in the occasional blaze at parties – he really doesn’t want a faint smell of tobacco lingering in his curls during the date. Zayn shoots him hurt looks all through the fag, maintaining an uncomfortable length of eye contact just so Harry is aware of the full force of the guilt he should be feeling. Unfortunately, he’s too busy tapping his foot against the doorstep and mentally going over every article of clothing he owns.

By the time they’ve collected snacks from the kitchen for maximum concentration and inspiration (celery sticks and a jar of extra crunchy peanut butter) and are rummaging through Harry’s enormous walk-in-wardrobe, he’s near a full-blown crisis. If he wears the skull-and-lace print Alexander McQueen shirt then he can’t wear the statement St. Laurent glitter boots (because a plain outfit calls for a statement shoe, everyone knows that). But if he wears just a classic white shirt then the whole outfit will suddenly take on an air of importance that frankly, is a bit much for a first date. This leads to a whole other set of dilemmas starting from ‘what if I seem too keen?’ to ‘he already dresses the best out of the two of us – what could I possibly bring to the relationship?’

All seems lost, and Harry’s about to throw in the towel and suffocate himself with silk Dolce & Gabbana scarves when Zayn pulls out The Perfect Shirt. It’s last season Burberry Prorsum, a soft beige leopard-print t-shirt he brought back from a fashion show and lost immediately afterwards. He’s too busy crushing Zayn in a fierce hug to mourn the glitter boots, and decides instead to pair it with his most ripped skinny jeans and one of the countless pairs of Chelsea boots he has strewn across his bedroom. It insinuates grunginess but sophistication, and even Zayn seems impressed. They take almost a dozen Polaroids, but none nearly live up to the real thing.

It’s five to eight when the nerves trembling beneath his skin seem to reawaken.

 

//

 

**[Obviously Ben plot was abandoned]**

**[Scene showing Nick and Harry getting closer – watching tv, not fighting]**

**[Scene somehow beginning to show cracks in Liam and Harry’s friendship and planting seed of bad feeling in Harry’s stomach to resurface prior to driving test]**

**[Preparing for driving test scene – include Harry whinging to Lucy about where his shirt is “It’s my most capable-looking outfit!” – also include some sort of fight with Nick which leaves Harry rather upset/maybe comment on something out of bounds]**

 

//

 

**[Driving scene to realization scene]**

The driving test is a total disaster. Harry’s a mess, swerving and narrowly missing about three potential car crashes all while keeping a running commentary under his breath of all the things wrong in his life. The thing is, Harry knows he can drive - he can - but everything seems wrong today. First his Topman collarless shirt, then Lucy and Nick, and now this. An overwhelming feeling of ickiness has seeped through his skin and clings on like a remora.

It still takes him by surprise when the driving instructor, a short tempered ginger man with a moustache almost bigger than his face, fails him. He’s so mean about it too, and it takes the last remaining ounces of Harry’s pride to not cry in front if him. It’s probably his worst day ever.

 

//

 

Returning home is a miserable affair because everywhere he looks his mum has hung ‘Congratulations Harry!’ banners up and adorned the lounge with gold helium balloons. There’s also an extra seat set at the table meaning Nick’s here and _oh god_ , he’s never going to hear the end of this.

He weighs the likelihood of being able to sneak upstairs without anyone realizing he’s here but he’s spotted almost immediately by Lucy, who ushers him outside before he can convince her he has the plague and will die unless he reaches his bedroom and is left alone all night and probably forever.

Out on the patio Nick and Liam are laughing, kicking a football at each other and discussing something most likely boring and nature-related. Liam’s been on an eco kick ever since the club night last week when Nick danced with him, and it would be sweet that he’s taking an initiative if it weren’t so fucking annoying. This makes Harry feel even more terrible then, because Liam wants to do good and Harry should be encouraging this, not sulking every time he sees Nick pay attention to someone other than him. It’s just… Nick’s _his_ person, you know? Why can’t Liam find friends of his own?

It takes a moment before either of them realizes Harry’s returned and the wait makes him bitter. He wants Liam to go home and for Nick not to tease him this once and maybe a cuppa in bed with Dusty and old episodes of Gilmore Girls. Season three, because Jess is the fittest and absolutely the one Rory should have ended up with.

“Harry!” Liam cries, his eyes crinkling up into a smile, “how’d it go, mate?”

Harry sniffles pathetically, tugging at the sleeve of his – wrong – shirt and wishing the earth would open up and swallow him whole. He forces himself to meet Nick’s eyes, watching the exact moment he realizes the truth.

“Bit shit, really,” he mumbles, letting his curls fall in sad tufts across his forehead. “I failed.”

A beat passes and then Liam’s rushing over to him, clucking over Harry and pulling him into a hug. “That’s too bad, Haz. I’m sorry.”

Harry doesn’t really feel like a hug right now, least of all from Liam, so he shrugs him off as gently as possible. Liam steps back, a look of betrayal so exaggerated it’s almost funny. Nick still hasn’t said anything and the radio silence is making him uneasy, the tension of the whole afternoon suddenly crushing down on him like a waterfall and he just _cracks_.

“No ‘I told you so’ then?” He snaps, frustrated. The glower he shoots Nick is answered with a look of confusion, and for some reason this only incenses him more. Why is Nick choosing today to be nice? Harry just wants to cry. “Don’t hold back now, Nick.”

Nick shakes his head, watching him uncertainly as if he’s not sure what he wants him to do. “I haven’t said anything, Harry,” he says slowly, like those people in movies trying to calm down spooked horses. It hits Harry that in this analogy he’s the spooked horse and honestly _,_ he doesn’t even like horses. He stares at him for a moment longer before he storms back into the house, followed closely by Liam.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Haz, because I have something I need to show you.”

Harry’s exhausted and upset and frankly, he doesn’t care, but he’s still Harry and Liam’s still his friend and he did abandon a hug earlier so he owes him. He watches as Liam pulls out a YSL shoebox, rustling with what sounds like trinkets jingling inside. The curiosity gets the better of him and he joins him by the fireplace.

“What’s this, then?” he asks, picking the box up gingerly and shaking it close to his ear. The clattering noise starts again, and he looks up at Liam expectantly.

“Don’t laugh,” Liam exhales, “but it’s my Andy box.”

Harry blinks, “Your Andy box?”

Looking a little sheepish, Liam lifts its lid to reveal what could only be described as a shoebox shrine to Andy Samuels, and the whole concept seems so alien to Harry that he almost laughs. He saves himself just in time, because Liam is looking at him very seriously and this is clearly not a laughing matter.

**[tbc - somehow include “You’re a virgin you can’t drive.” – Harry needing some retail therapy to cheer up.]**

 

//

**[Can't remember but assume this is after the fight with Liam]**

 

It takes all the willpower Harry possesses not to cry on his way home. He trudges through Regents Park, every footstep weighing a tonne and not even caring when he scuffs his boots in a rogue rabbit hole disguised as a patch of grass. Well, he cares a little bit, but he adds that to the ever-growing list of Horrible Things That Have Happened Today he’ll cry over in bed later on tonight.

 

**[tbc – realization he’s in love with Nick, needs to start doing good to distract himself]**

**  
**

**//**

Over the next few weeks Harry does his best to be home as little as possible. Home means his parents badgering him about the future and Nick - now back to his regular, bitchy self - making sly digs at the fact that he couldn’t even earn his drivers license. The thought is literally so unappealing that he ends up staying later at school most days to help out with various fundraisers going on.

There’s one calling for volunteers to help clean the Thames, and while there’s no way in hell Harry is stepping into the murky brown waters of what is arguably England's dirtiest river, he helps raise awareness for it. All it takes is a couple of smiles and sparkly cupcakes baked by Louis’ little sisters and the Thames Team finds itself with not enough lurid fuchsia t-shirts to go around. His next project are Boris Bikes, and he more or less forces all his friends – and in turn, all of their friends – to bike to school for a week, earning himself a hearty pat on the back from Mr. Chaloner and thighs that burn every time he even sees a staircase. He’s never quite realized how unfit all of his friends are until they have to stop in the middle of Regents Park so Niall can stealthily throw up into a bush. They’ve only been cycling for twelve minutes and on mostly flat ground. (A no-exercise ban is instilled on the final Friday afternoon, calves aching and sweating through their shirts. Liam is the only one left standing as they all collapse across his floor and try and remember how to breathe again.) He even vows this time to actually complete the 30 Hour Famine, and with the help of Zayn (who, admittedly, chain-smokes all through it) they manage it. Harry basically inhales the Nandos they order afterwards, but he also raises nearly £3000, so he fucking well deserves it.

It’s weird, doing all this stuff for other people. Harry’d usually reward himself after a long day of college with a shopping spree on Oxford Street, but thinking back on it, he hasn’t even entered a mall in over a month. It’s not a conscious decision: he doesn’t meander around the peripheries of shops every night, staring sadly at the racks upon racks of beautiful tailored suits and silky scarves just waiting to be wrapped around his head in a makeshift headband. He’s just always so busy, either with friends or fundraisers or classes – it’s nice. Exhausting, but nice.

Maybe Nick was right all along with his social awareness preaching, because ever since Harry started volunteering he feels… better about himself. Good in a way that’s different from unwrapping the crisp crepe paper of new underwear from Calvin Klein or arguing his grades out of the dismal depths of C’s. He almost wants to tell Nick about it, flick him a text or drive over to see him, but he hasn’t heard from Nick in days now and it makes him lonely.

He’s used to Nick always hanging around the house, blustering in after classes with red wine in tow and occasionally staying the night in his old room, even though he complains he’s haunted by Ghosts of Terrible Fashion Past. This is probably due to the pictures Harry printed off of Nick in his fetching silver coat plastered all over the walls, but lately he’s been distant. He never comes over anymore, and when he is he’s locked up in Robin’s study busy slaving over unending mounds of paperwork. Harry’s even stopped bothering to invite him to steal the remote so Nick can change it to something depressing and environmental, already knowing the answer will be “I’m busy.”

He misses their ‘me’ time – misses ribbing each other and purposely making Nick’s nostril flare in that way they do when he’s incensed by something decidedly Not Cool. Misses snuggling into him when they watch movies, tired from the hours of bickering over what to watch to then just stick with whatever is on telly. He misses the smell of Nick’s aftershave, sharp and musky at the base of his collar; the stupid underground dance music he blasts in the car that all sound exactly the same; the way Nick knows when to abandon his smug demeanor and just be nice, ruffling Harry’s hair and pulling him back down to earth. He misses him.

The loss hits him like a ton of bricks. There’s no gradualness about it, no slow burn feeding on the flame. It’s like one moment he’s okay and the next he’s missing part of himself. He knows he’s in love with him, but he didn’t realize it would be so _hard_.

The only times he feels somewhat connected to him is when he tunes in for Nick’s radio station at night, listening for the full two hours and wishing he were there to distract him and throw stuff and make as much of a menace of himself as possible.

He’s cocooned in bed later that night when he remembers to switch on. Dusty’s perched on the duvet next to him, her furry chest rising and falling in a soothing pattern, and he lifts her onto his stomach as he finds the app on his phone and waits for the server to connect. There are a few false starts before his speakers crackle to life half-way through some hip hop song Nick plays in the car occasionally. He turns the volume up, and nestles deeper into the blankets.

It’s good; slow and sophisticated, different, but he catches a few sentences and types them into his notes as a reminder to look up the lyrics some time. The song ends and blurs into another, this time distinctly house with female vocals. It’s far more pop-py, easy to bop along to. He ends up petting Dusty’s fur in time to the music, giving her tiny little ear scratches when the drums intensify. It’s fun, and he feels relaxed for the first time in too long.

Finally Nick’s voice rings out from the speakers, amused like he was laughing before being rudely interrupted by the need to broadcast. He starts chattering on about an after-party he went to the night before, where the singer from the previous song had gone behind the bar to help prepare drinks when the club had gotten too packed for comfort. He sounds at ease and excited, describing everything from the drink she’d made him to his hair drama prior to the gig, and by the end of the anecdote Harry is laughing along like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He knows Nick’s funny – Christ, he doesn’t exactly let you forget it – but it translates _so well_ to radio and Harry is just sort of grossly, hideously happy for him.

He presses his nose into Dusty’s soft fur to hide the smile unfurling on his face as his laughs dissolve into giggles, and he calms back down again. He tunes out for a little bit, listening less to the words Nick’s speaking but the lilt of his voice – how it takes on a breathy quality when he’s excited and how his accent sounds thoroughly more Northern when he’s doing an impression. They’re little things he’s never really noticed before, and it seems strange that he’s known Nick for so long yet never taken a note of them.

It’s not until the curl of amusement pikes up in Nick’s voice that Harry starts paying attention again, catching on a bit into a story of a friend he was driving somewhere the other day. Portobello Road comes up, and then Disclosure, and it all sounds a notch familiar until Harry realizes that Nick’s talking about _him_. Or, should he say, completely taking the piss.

“So we’re driving, yeah, I’m dropping him off to fuckin’ Notting Hill, and he always does this thing where the moment we’re in my car he changes the radio station, because, well, he’s an idiot. And first of all, it’s my car – what ya doin’? – and second, his taste is _terrible_. Like, seriously bad,” Harry rolls his eyes. “Usually I let it slide, but this time all he could find was bloody Macklemore, and thank Christ even he can recognize that’s shite. So we keep searching until we find Disclosure, and it’s like, admittedly a bit repetitive, but a brilliant tune, right? Then – bless him, he lasted about two thirds into it – my friend starts trying to change the song again, and I stop him because, well, it’s _Disclosure_. And he turns to me like, ‘Nick, I refuse to listen to what happens when a fire starts to burn for another two minutes.’ And at first I’m baffled like, who even is this heathen? But it got me thinking… What does happen when a fire starts to burn? Is it ever explained? And this question haunted my every thought for a whole week before I had an incredible idea: why not just ask them? So coming up after this track and my very, very long and windy story – thanks Fiona – are Disclosure, in to inform the people of Great Britain exactly what it is that happens when a fire starts to burn, and it starts to spread and something about bringing that attitude home. In the mean time, have my Record of the Week from the lovely and not in anyway less talented than her marginally more famous sister, Solange.”

The opening chords of ‘Lovers in the Parking Lot’ spread throughout his bedroom, but all Harry can think about is whether Nick talks about this ‘friend’ on his show often. If this is the first time he’s ever listened in and Nick just happened to be recounting a story involving Harry, then how many times has this happened before? He sounded so fond, too, and the thought lights up a flame in his ribcage that spreads underneath his skin like wildfire.

He pulls Dusty in closer until she’s pressed against his chest and kicking her paws out in frustration, trying to wrangle free from his clutch. Her warmth isn’t quite a replacement for an actual human being, and her jack-rabbiting hind legs mean he ends up with several pale grazes across his forearms rather than dusky kisses littered across his face. He lets her go before the claws come out, watching as she slinks off the bed with a beady gaze in his direction. He reaches for his phone then, scrolling down his inbox till he finds the name he’s looking for.

 _That songs terrible and youre the idiot_ , he sends.

Solange’s dulcet tones are still ringing out from the speakers so Nick should be able to text, and fittingly his phone vibrates a few seconds later.

**could it be??? young harold listening to something other than miley cyrus??? thought u were 2 big time 4 night time**

Harry smirks, already tapping furiously at the screen.

_Am not. And wanted to hear you embarrass yourself on national radio  
_

As an afterthought, he sends: _nice to see you dont disappoint_

**don’t you have homework you should be doing??? maybe some teachers to trick into passing you or an anti-shampoo convention to attend**

_heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy_ , followed by a string of sad emojis.

_and I washed my hair tonight_

**to what do i owe the honour then  
**

_Just making sure your not boring your uni to tears_

**cheers, haz. so kind of you. is that it?**

**cause no offense i’m kind of busy right now doing something actually useful**

**(its ok i don’t expect u to understand)**

_fuck off. and Sort of_

**sort of?**

_Haven’t seen you round home in a while… and the fridge is unnaturally full lately._

**i’ve had exams**

_Oh ok_

**why?**

**u miss me?**

_No idiot_

_Robin’s working all the time and mums always out and there’s no one around to drive me to tennis practice on Wednesdays so_

_I was just wondering_

**am i just like a glorified chauffeur to you or something**

_duh_ **  
**

**BYE styles**

_Bye Grimshaw :) xx_

He’s not expecting a reply. Nick is genuinely busy, banter aside. He vaguely registers Nick taking his cue to speak too late: by the time the song trickled to a finish there remaining an awkward few seconds before he picked up again. He seems distracted too, forgetting what he’s talking about a few words into a sentence and generally just driving his producer Fifi mad.

“You there, Grimmy? Where’s your head at?” She asks, and something clatters in the background.

“Hey…” Nick says weakly, still sounding like he’s not paying attention. “No throwing my biros.”

Harry’s phone buzzes from beside him on the pillow and he reaches for it immediately, already pressing in his password before he’s even checked the screen.

**xx**

It’s all it says. Harry’s lips curl into a grin, and he bites down hard on his lip as he texts back. Is this what Nick was so distracted by? **  
**

_Xxx_

Almost immediately his phone buzzes again. **  
**

**xxxx**

Harry lets his fingers drag across the keyboard as sloppily as possible.

_XxxXXXxxXXXxxxxxxx xoxoox xxxx oxoox_

**goodnight harry x**

_Goodnight nick x_

//

 

**[Can't remember if there's meant to be anything between these]**

 

//

When he gets home he’s expecting an empty house, or at the most Lucy determinedly dusting the downstairs study that hasn’t been occupied since Pete used to live with them. Instead, he’s greeted by the sound of some obscure house track involving cowbells and a dozen of Nick’s friends mingling on the patio.

The one he vaguely recognizes as Henry hollers at him from across the garden, waving his drink in the air as a salute. Harry appreciates it, especially as of Nick’s pretentious friends, Henry is one of the most offensive. For reasons unbeknownst, he likes Harry, and always makes a point of inquiring after his love life whenever Nick is in the room. Nick hates it, but his attempts at a subject change go ignored. There’s no fighting Henry.

Everyone is in varying states of inebriation, celebrating the end of their school year with young wine and turquoise bottles of Alizé. They’re probably ironic, but it doesn’t stop Pixie and Alexa from guzzling them down like they’re tasting the nectar of the gods. He grabs a flute from the table, joining them in tinting his tongue unnatural colours.

“You even legal yet, Styles?” Pixie admonishes, but she’s grinning, tucking herself under Harry’s arm. Alexa joins from his other side, winding her arms around his waist so they’re standing in a three-man vertical cuddle.

“As if you haven’t been stealing your dads fags since you were thirteen,” Alexa tuts, shooting Pixie what is probably meant to be a disapproving glare. It comes out unbelievably fond. Alexa and Pix remind him a lot of him and Zayn, now that he thinks of it.

Pixie hums in agreement, the buzz from where her face is pressed into Harry’s collarbone sending prickles down his spine. “I was an absolute nightmare of a child, though. Unlike our Harold here,” she gives Harry a little squeeze, “who’s been an angel since birth.”

Harry chuckles, shaking his fringe in front of his face before pushing it back again. “You don’t know that.”

Pixie raises her head to shoot him a particularly sardonic look. “Darling, I’ve known you since you were ten. Even then you pushed chairs out for me at tables and let me plait your hair when Grimmy wouldn’t.”

“Nick never grew his hair long enough for plaiting.”

“Exactly. Remember when you still had the springy, tumbling curls? Like a Disney princess? I’ve known you _that_ long.” Her words make Harry feel young again, a little bit chubby and cheerful and willing to do anything to impress Nick’s cool school friends. Willing to do anything to impress Nick.

He wonders just how much has changed since then.

“That’s pretty long,” agrees Alexa, nodding her head solemnly. She and Pixie share a glance, and sigh exasperatedly. One of them begins sifting her fingers through his curls, and he hums in contentment, pushing up into the graze.

“You were so cute when you were little, Harry. You’re all cool now, with your quiff and your stupidly tight pants and harem of boyfriends. What happens when you get too cool for us?”

Alexa sends him a particularly doe-eyed look, and he rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Harry can’t imagine any single universe in which he’s even remotely as cool as them, let alone cooler. Ever since he was ten he’s idolized Nick and his friends, the chic older kids laying on his couch munching on crisps and criticising everything from Britney’s new haircut to which member of Blue was the fittest. Nick always said Duncan, and the thought still makes Harry a bit squeamish. Unsurprisingly, Harry can’t stand the bloke.

Either way, he plays along. “You’ll have to find someone else's step-brother to bully into playing beauty shop with you.”

The look Pixie sends him is an odd one, her head tilting to an almost comedic angle as she eyes him up. “You’ve never been Grim’s ex-step-brother to us, Harry.” She says, emphasizing the _ex_. The look she gives him is just a little too knowing for his taste, and he ducks his head to hide the blush threatening to tint his cheeks. “You’re our friend too.”

“You’re not even Grimmy’s ex-step-brother to Grimmy, and your parents were married,” Alexa picks up, her voice soft, “you know that, right?”

Harry does know. He’s known it since before their parents divorced, before he even realized he was stupidly in love with Nick. The thought makes him dizzy, and he sways a fraction, causing both girls to grip him tighter.

“Y'alright, babe?” Pixie asks, her voice laced with concern.

“M’fine, m’fine,” Harry mumbles, before disentangling himself gently, “gonna head inside and grab a bite. Before, y’know, you eat us out of Jaffa Cakes. As usual.”

Pixie sticks her tongue out at him, an outrageous shade of cerulean amongst the pink of her lipstick and the blush of her cheeks. He feels an overwhelming wave of affection for them both in that moment, and steps in for another quick embrace. They coo over him dutifully, and then he’s slipping through the garden, weaving his way through the steadily increasing crowd until he can see the familiar marble top of his kitchen bench in the near distance.

He manages his way into the kitchen, feeling light-headed from the two flutes of Alizé and his talk with the girls. If his feelings for Nick are so obvious that Pixie and Alexa have known since he was merely a child, what about everyone else? What about his mum? Gemma? Pete? Lucy? Fuck, _Nick_ _himself_?

Harry’s just a kid in his eyes. Not a _related_ kid, thank Christ, because that’d be a whole other ball game and frankly, just a bit wrong, no matter the pangs of empathy he feels when he watches Game of Thrones and Cersei cops off with her own fit brother than her grizzly old husband who gets killed by a pig.

No, he and Nick are friends foremost, but he’s still three years younger. Harry was only ten when Nick was thirteen. Nick could be out there meeting his pick of hot, mature, university boys that can dish out proper opinions on Nietzsche and don’t confuse alt-J with Gregorian chants. Harry still mistakes ‘Fitzpleasure’ for Enya – he clearly doesn’t warrant Nick’s interest.

He sifts through the fridge for a few minutes, sulking into the trim milk and digestives before feeling a warm hand curl over his shoulder. It’s an action so familiar it barely gets a flinch.

“Sorry about the gathering,” Nick murmurs, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze, “got a bit out of hand. You know how it is.”

Nick shoots him his softest smile and any misgivings Harry may have had at finding a party happening in his living room quickly melt away at the sight of it. He wants to kiss him so bad it _hurts_.

“I know how it is,” is all Harry says in return, returning Nick’s smile with a tentative one of his own. They stare at each other for a little longer, Nick’s palm still resting on Harry’s shoulder and sparking a sea of warmth from his fingertips through the thin cotton of his shirt. Harry shivers at the touch, goose bumps prickling down his arm from the sensation.

Some very hoarse coughing wakes them from their reverie.

It belongs to Jared, the long-haired guy Harry hasn’t seen since the date he gate crashed. In fairness to him, Jared has every right to be a bit of a knob, especially as Harry ended up cockblocking spectacularly and getting him and Nick into a bit of a tiff at the end of the night.

“Y’alright?” Nick asks him benignly. His tone is light, but he removes his hand from Harry as if it burns. He misses the warmth immediately.

Shaking away his disappointment, Harry gives Jared his most winning smile. “Need a strepsil?”

The scowl Jared sends him is cold enough to freeze the entirety of the Iron Curtain, and it’s like the heat that had been spreading through Harry’s limbs quickly retracts, leaving nothing but frostiness in its stead. Jared has a way of making him feel about a thousand feet small – self-obsessed and shallow and not worthy of his attention.

He shifts on his feet, accidentally stepping on his own heel in the process because he’s so fucking pigeon-toed. He sees Nick’s lips quirk out of the corner of his eye, as if he’s biting down on a smile. The thought makes him feel a little less silly.

“I’m fine,” Jared says curtly, making a swift turn so he’s blocking Harry out of the conversation. Eyes fixed on Nick like a predator preparing to pounce, he places a palm flat on the fridge door, trapping Nick from exiting the kitchen. “Hey, Grim.”

Nick nods. “Jared.”

His tone is gratifyingly non-committal and Harry resists the urge to pull at Jared’s long, pretty hair and laugh in his face. The worst part is that Harry is nice, he _knows_ he’s nice – he’s organized a total of nine baked good fundraisers for his tennis team, icing tennis rackets and complimentary little messages onto the cupcakes until the early hours of the morning, and the moment he gets his license he fully intends to brake for animals – but something about Jared sets him off edge. It’s like a feral creature has nestled itself at the pit of Harry’s stomach, dormant and tranquil until it senses Jared in it’s vicinity, ready at any moment to crawl up his throat and unleash profanities that Harry’s only ever read on the inside of Louis’ locker.

It’s unsettling; Harry’s not cut out for impoliteness, never has been. His mum brought him up better than that.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Jared continues, oblivious to Harry’s inner monologue, “not since, you know…”

Harry catches Jared’s expression in the reflection of the countertop, and it’s not complimentary. He doesn’t know what he’s still doing standing here, obviously unwanted and teetering on the brink of a tantrum, but something in Nick’s eyes makes him stay. This is his house after all, and he’s not so much of a pushover that he’d let Jared forget it.

“Yeah,” Nick agrees lamely, “I’ve been busy. Uni and stuff, y’know.” He scratches mindlessly at the back of his head, ruffling up the hairs so that they stand in opposing directions. It’s so terribly endearing Harry has to forcibly remove his eyes from it so he doesn’t smooth them back down and press adoring kisses to Nick’s forehead. “Been deejaying a bit at the radio too,” he continues, “it’s all been a bit hectic.”

“He has,” Harry confirms, grinning like an idiot, “he’s brilliant. A lot of it is his usual cry-baby indie, but he played a Miley track the other day. Some Disclosure, too.”

Jared gives him a look of pure disinterest. “Oh, you’re still here?” He asks disdainfully.

“It’s his house,” Nick replies testily, but he’s blushing a bit, clearly affected by Harry’s words.

“And it’s your party!” Jared snaps, no longer bothering to hide his glare, “why is the kid even here anyway? Doesn’t he have shopping to do? Starbucks to instagram and globalised industries to support?”

Harry recoils back in shock, eyes wide and hurt as he repeats a steady mantra of _do not cry do not cry do not let him see you cry_ until he almost believes it can work. He clenches his fists and greets the sharp pang from his fingernails digging into his palms as a welcome distraction. Maybe if he concentrates on that enough he wont spontaneously burst into tears.

“Let him go back to the mall, Nick. It’s all he cares about, anyway,” Jared spits out, and it’s as if everything sort of shuts down around him. Harry doesn’t know how he mumbles out a meagre excuse and leaves them, just that all he can hear is white noise ringing in his eardrums and he’s sure his kitchen wasn’t nearly as crowded five minutes ago.

It feels like centuries have been and gone by the time he makes his way into the foyer, and the sound of the lock clicking behind him sends a wave of relief down his spine. He stumbles up the staircase, eventually settling a few steps from the top and folding down so that his chin is rested on his knees. He only comes here when he’s feeling particularly miserable, and this is such an occasion.

He can still hear the party hammering on only a wall away, disembodied laughs and the crack of a glass breaking on the marble floors reminding him that life is going on out there while he sits alone and blinks back tears. He stays anyway, reluctant to be anywhere he can be reminded just how young and stupid he is by pretentious twats with annoyingly lovely hair and a philosophy degree.

He wishes he could be as fierce as Zayn and Louis, who’d have Jared’s head on a platter for how he just spoke to Harry – but he’s not. He’s sensitive and emotional and a little bit clueless, but he knows he’s not a bad person, just like he knows that Jared’s a dick.

Sure, Harry prefers retail therapy and Geordie Shore to sitting in a dark room arguing about dead musicians and whether Kerouac deserves the hype, but that doesn’t make him stupid. They make him happy, and why should anybody have the right to tell him the things he loves are inferior simply because they don’t like them?

Harry loves the way he is. It’s the only way he knows how to be. But no matter how resolutely he tells himself this, it still hurts. Nearly as much as Nick’s failure to defend him, but Harry puts that pain away for later when everyone’s gone and he can curl up in bed with tea and his favourite episode of Friends and eat his feelings in Jammy Dodgers.

Instead, he hugs his knees close to his chest and concentrates very hard on not listening out for that familiar voice muffled through the wall.

 

//

 

(Yet, what Harry hates most is that Jared had called him ‘Nick’. Not ‘Grim’, nor ‘Grimmy’. Only Harry calls him ‘Nick’, everyone knows that.

Or maybe what Harry hates most is that Nick didn’t stop him.)

 

//

 

He’s drifting in and out of a disturbingly vivid fantasy where he’s strangling Jared to death with his own luscious locks when he hears the door click faintly from across the room. He looks up, expecting it to be a drunken straggler desperately seeking a bathroom, or maybe Lucy, when instead a sheepish looking Nick greets him.

Their eyes meet and it’s electric as usual, just as it has been since he discovered boys, but this time Harry doesn’t smile and Nick doesn’t crack a joke and it’s just awfully, awfully awkward. Seconds pass and neither of them move and Harry thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust if someone doesn’t say something in the next few seconds.

Ever so slowly, Nick crosses the floor and climbs the staircase until he’s at Harry’s step. He lowers himself down so they’re parallel, but scoots as far away from him as possible. Harry tries not to take it personally.

After a further few minutes of excruciating silence, he cracks. “Shouldn’t you be at your party?” He inquires, peeking over his knees at where Nick is watching him wearily.

Nick shakes his head. “They’re all gone. I just finished checking the toilets for the couples that couldn’t wait till they got home. We’re in the clear,” he cracks a tentative smile, and Harry stares back at him blankly.

A few more moments pass until he can’t hold back anymore. His feelings and insecurities have been brewing at the back of his mind for minutes, hours, days, years and now they’re all culminating in this terribly underwhelming conversation that neither of them can carry for longer than a few half-arsed sentences. There’s so much Harry needs to say and the words are all perched at the tip of his tongue but he just can’t seem to let them out, can’t phrase them correctly.

Even Nick, who on a good day can’t shut up if you paid him, is at loss for words. He’s drumming his fingers on his thigh like he does when he’s nervous and Harry can’t even marvel in the fact it’s _him_ whose reduced him to this because the sound is fucking infuriating.

“I’m sorry about Jared,” Nick cuts through the silence, clenching his fist like he’s preparing for battle. He relaxes again, and clicks the joints of his knuckles. “I’m sorry I let him speak to you like that.”

Harry shrugs, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “It’s the truth though, isn’t it? No matter what I do I’m still that posh, rich kid with too much money and little sense.”

Nick eyes widen a fraction, and he shakes his head wordlessly. A hand envelops Harry’s calf; long fingers reaching around the tight denim and holding him down like an anchor. Harry wants to sink into the touch, let the warmth of Nick’s skin shroud him like a blanket, but it doesn’t mend the ache in his heart so he forces himself to remain aloof.

“It’s not the truth, Harry. Not at all,” Nick searches for his eyes, the intensity of his gaze so powerful he can’t help but give in. “Jared’s a dick, and so am I, and so are all my friends. But you’re not. You’re lovely, and I’m sorry."

Nick’s eyes are a peculiar colour, a chocolatey brown with hues of green and flickers of what almost looks like gold, and Harry will have glanced at them a million and one times before and never noticed their complexity. There is nothing more flighty than Nick’s attention span but in this moment he is looking at nothing other than Harry, and the attention makes him maudlin.

“Do you really think I’m silly and shallow?” Harry whispers, looking up from beneath his eyelashes. He feels Nick’s fingers twitch on his pantleg and exhale loudly, as if he’d been keeping a breath tucked in for as long as it took Harry to speak.

Nick smiles, and it’s kind. “I would never.”

For the first time all evening, Harry feels the urge to laugh. What comes out is a watery chuckle, but he’s always been a crier so it should come as no surprise. He sniffles, rubbing his nose with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Yes, you do,” he smiles softly, “you’ve told me I am since I was ten.”

The thought of Nick sparing him condescending looks as he pranced around in £750 Marc Jacobs loafers which were all the craze in 2010 and the almost daily radio propriety scuffles shouldn’t be as fond a memory as they are, but he keeps them locked in a bejeweled case with love hearts scribbled all over it. He’s so fucking gone on Nick and he can’t even find it in himself to care.

Nick barks a laugh, the kind that sounds like it’s been punched out of him bereft his will. “I used to, maybe,” he admits, biting his lip in a way so arousing Harry’s awfully glad he still has his legs pressed up tight against his torso, “but – I don’t know – it was always kind of… sweet. I know I’ve teased you mercilessly over the years but I’m also a massive fucking arse, Haz, and I never meant it. Not really.”

He pauses, staring down at his hands suddenly as if they alone hold the power to unlock the mysteries of the universe. “You’ve done all this nice stuff recently, from making the entirety of this neighbourhood willingly recycle by the force of your charm to giving up half your fancy scarves for charity. I think we’ve both done a lot of growing up, and it’s about time I told you how great you’re doing. You’re not shallow, Harry, or stupid. You’re perfect, trust me.”

Harry can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and he bites down on the side of his cheek to keep himself from grinning like an idiot. Theoretically, he knows Nick's approval shouldn't mean anything to him, but it's still nice to hear. The iron clasp his fingers have across his legs tightens and he pulls them in closer so that he doesn’t do anything extraordinarily stupid, like fling his arms around Nick’s neck and never let go.

“You really think so?” He asks shyly, dipping his head to the side. He makes a move to outstretch his legs, releasing the hold he held them captive in when Nick’s fingers encircle his wrist and he’s suddenly being pulled forward into his arms.

Nick’s hand lands gently on his cheek, and their proximity has gone from attempting to keep as much distance as one can when you’re both sharing the same step to knees knocking and legs overlapping as they fight to be as close to each other as possible. Harry’s fist is clutching desperately at the fabric of Nick’s t-shirt, scrunched at his shoulder and pulling him closer till the tips of their noses are brushing in tiny eskimo kisses. Their eyes lock and it’s desperate, the want to be so close to one another they could merge into one.

Time stops and all Harry can hear is the sound of his breathing, inhale and exhale until someone finally surges forward and – they’re kissing. It’s frantic at first, a sharp rush of blood to all his senses as they race to devour every inch of one another. Nick’s hands are everywhere, caressing his legs and sifting through his curls and cupping his cheek and Harry can’t breathe with how much he wants him. They’re as close as humanly possible but he still needs more.

Nick’s tongue is slick and warm and Harry may be picky with his conquests but he’s snogged his fair share of frogs, and none of them can even come near the level he’s on right now. Nick’s lips are soft against his and he’s not being gentle and Harry cannot even fathom how long he’s wanted this. With a palm pressed firmly against Nick’s chest, Harry hitches himself up onto his lap, relieved when one of Nick’s hands immediately shifts to tighten around his hip, keeping him in place.

It gets slower then, more relaxed, like they realize in sync that really, they have all the time in the world. Harry’s fingers draw lazy patterns into the back of Nick’s hair, delighting in the way his now wilted quiff allows for softer curls to emerge from all the product he applies in the mornings. In turn, Nick cradles his jaw, contouring the sharp angles with a brush of his thumb and spreading little pulses of white-hot heat through Harry’s already hypersensitive limbs.

It’s a while before their breathing evens, foreheads resting against one another as Harry presses little kitten licks to the corner of Nick’s mouth. He’s giggling, whimsy in his joy, and Nick’s eyelashes keep fluttering down and tickling his cheeks. They don’t speak, just hold each other, and it feels both different and like nothing has changed.

It could be that the jigsaw pieces making up his life have finally slotted together in the correct formation, but Harry’s never felt more complete than he does here, sitting on his staircase with Nick, fingers intertwined and the promise of everything sitting primly on his tongue.

“I really do,” Nick whispers right in the shell of his ear, and Harry’s melts into the sensation. He doesn’t dare say it, but he thinks he could stay here forever.

 

//

**[Filler scene making a point of waiting until Harry is 18 here – maybe Ian and Aimee’s wedding? Figure out when to put an ‘I love you’ in words.]**

**[Sex scene - Harry's 18th]**

 

//

 

**[Final scene(s)]**

 

When Harry finally surfaces he finds himself so tightly cocooned in the duvet he can barely see beyond the blankets of white. It’s fluffy and stifling and he’s vaguely aware this isn’t how he found it last night. Or they found it, since he definitely wasn’t alone.

He feels around for Nick,

 

//

**[Final scene of Nick and Harry driving around reminiscent of earlier scene but this time more complete and romantic. Nick's probably dropping him off somewhere after Harry shamelessly begged off a ride. Maybe a song comes on and it's Disclosure and Nick's like "Did you ever figure out what this is about" and Harry's like "Yeah it's about you being a dick but me loving you anyway" and Nick's like "Thanks. Love you too. You're never getting a ride again" and Harry just laughs and kisses him. And then goes shopping]**

**//**

 

_[Fin]_


End file.
